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 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOLUME II. 
 
 fJrinteU for 
 
 tftancte a. jStccolljs a Co* 
 
 Boston 
 
This Edition is Limited to One Thousand Copit 
 of which this is No. 2G3 
 
A I es- 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. The Temple 11 
 
 PI. The Arrest 52 
 
 III. Jacques Ferrand 109 
 
 IV. The Office 116 
 
 V. The Clients 137 
 
 VI. The Anonymous Letter . . . . 167 
 
 VII. ^Reflections 197 
 
 VIII. The Bachelors' Breakfast .... 211 
 
 IX. St. Lazare 225 
 
 X. Mont Saint -Jean 240 
 
 XI. La Louve and La Goualeuse .... 255 
 
 XII. The Protectress 285 
 
 XLTL The Forced Friendship 300 
 
 XIV. Cecily . . . . . . . .313 
 
 ft 
 
 980852 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PART I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 'Took my head between his hands'" Frontispiece 
 
 A GOUALETJSE IN THE PRISON 279 
 
 PART ET 
 
 Was about to embrace his father " . . . 199 
 
 Mysteries of Paris, Vol. II. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE TEMPLE. 
 
 To the deep snow which had fallen during the past 
 night had succeeded a very sharp wind, so that the 
 ordinarily muddy pavement was hard and dry, as 
 Rigolette and Rodolph wended onwards to the im- 
 mense and singular bazar called the Temple, the young 
 girl leaning unceremoniously on the arm of her cavalier, 
 who, on his part, appeared as much at his ease as though 
 they had been old familiar friends. 
 
 " What a funny old woman Madame Pipelet is ! " 
 observed the grisette to her companion ; " and what 
 very odd things she says ! " 
 
 " Well, I thought her remarks very striking, as well 
 as appropriate." 
 
 " Which of them, neighbour ? " 
 
 " Why, when she said « Young people would be young 
 people,' and « Vive V amour ! ' " 
 « Well?" 
 
 " Well ! I only mean to say those are precisely my 
 sentiments." 
 
 " Your sentiments ? " 
 
 " Yes, I should like nothing better than to pass my 
 youth with you, taking ' Vive V amour ! ' for my motto. 
 11 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 " I dare say, for certainly you are not hard to please." 
 
 " Why, where would be the harm, — are we not near 
 neighbours ? Of course we are, or else I should not be 
 seen walking out with you in this manner in broad day." 
 
 " Then you allow me to hope — " 
 
 "Hope what?" 
 
 " That you will learn to love me." 
 
 " Oh, bless you, I do love you already ! " 
 
 « Really?" 
 
 " To be sure I do. Why, how can I help it ? You 
 
 are good and gay ; though poor yourself, you have done 
 all in your power by interesting rich people in the fate 
 of the Morels ; your appearance pleases me ; and you 
 have altogether a nice look, and a sort of air such as 
 one is glad to find in a person we expect to go about 
 with a great deal. So there, I think, are abundant 
 reasons for my loving you." 
 
 Then, suddenly breaking into loud fits of laughter, 
 Rigolette abruptly exclaimed, " Look there, only look at 
 that fat woman with the furred shoes ! What does she 
 remind you of ? I'll tell you, — of a great sack being 
 drawn along by two cats without tails ! " and again she 
 laughed merrily. 
 
 "I would rather look at you, my pretty neighbour, 
 than at all the fat old women or tailless cats in Europe. 
 I am so delighted to find you already love me." 
 
 " I only tell you the truth ; if I disliked you, I should 
 speak just as plainly. I cannot reproach myself with 
 ever having deceived or flattered any one ; but, if a 
 person pleases me, I tell them so directly." 
 
 Again interrupting the thread of her discourse, the 
 grisette drew up suddenly before the windows of a shop, 
 saying, " Oh, do pray only look at that pretty clock and 
 those two handsome vases ! I had already saved up 
 three francs and a half, and had put it in my money- 
 box, to buy such a set as that. In five or six years I 
 might have been able to buy them." 
 
 12 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 " Saved up, do you say ? Then, I suppose, you earn — " 
 " At least thirty sous a day, — sometimes forty ; but I 
 never reckon upon more than thirty, which is the more 
 prudent; and I regulate all my expenses accordingly," 
 said Rigolette, with an air as important as though she 
 was settling the financial budget. 
 
 " But with thirty sous a day, how do you manage to 
 live?" 
 
 " Oh, bless you ! that is easily reckoned. Shall I tell 
 you how I manage, neighbour ? I fancy you are rather 
 extravagant in your notions ; so, perhaps, it may serve 
 as a lesson for you." 
 
 " Yes, pray do." 
 
 " Well, then, thirty sous a day make five and forty 
 francs a month, do they not ? " 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, then, out of that I pay twelve francs for lodg- 
 ing ; that leaves me twenty-three francs for food, etc." 
 
 " Is it possible ? Twenty -three francs for one month's 
 food!" 
 
 " Yes, really, all that ! Certainly, for such a person 
 as myself, it does seem an enormous sum ; but then, you 
 see, I deny myself nothing." 
 
 " Oh, you little glutton ! " 
 
 " Ah ! but then, remember, I include the food for both 
 my birds in that sum." 
 
 " Certainly it seems less exorbitant, when you come to 
 reckon, for three than for one ; but just tell me how you 
 manage day by day, that I may profit by your good 
 example." 
 
 " Well, then, be attentive, and I will go over the 
 different things I spend in it. First of all, one pound 
 of bread, that costs four sous ; then two sous' worth of 
 milk make six ; four sous' worth of vegetables in winter, 
 or fruit and salad in summer, — I am very found of salad, 
 because, like vegetables, it is such a nice clean thing to 
 prepare, and does not soil the hands; there goes ten 
 13 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 sous at once ; then three sous for butter, or oil and vine- 
 gar, to season the salad with, that makes thirteen sous ; 
 a pail of nice fresh water, — oh, I must have that ! it is 
 my principal extravagance, — that brings it to fifteen sous, 
 don't you see ? Then add two or three sous a week for 
 chickweed and seed for my birds, who generally have 
 part of my bread and milk ; all this comes to exactly 
 twenty-three francs a month, neither more nor less." 
 
 " And do you never eat meat ? " 
 
 " Meat, indeed ! I should think not. Why, it costs 
 from ten to twelve sous a pound ! A likely thing for 
 me to buy ! Besides, there is all the nuisance and smell 
 of cooking ; instead of which, milk, vegetables, or fruit, 
 are always ready when you wish for them. I tell you 
 what is a favourite dish of mine, without being trouble- 
 some to prepare, and which I excel in making." 
 
 " Oh, pray let me know what it is ? " 
 
 " Why, I get some beautiful ripe, rosy apples, and put 
 them at the top of my little stove ; when they are quite 
 tender, I bruise them with a little milk, and just a taste 
 of sugar. It is a dish for an emperor. If you behave 
 well, I will let you taste it some day." 
 
 " Prepared by your hands, it can scarcely fail being 
 excellent ; but let us keep to our reckoning. Let me 
 see, we counted twenty-three francs for living, etc., and 
 twelve francs for lodging ; that makes thirty-five francs 
 a month." 
 
 " Well, then, out of the forty-five or fifty francs I earn, 
 there remains from ten to fifteen francs a month for my 
 wood and oil during the winter, as well as for my clothes 
 and washing ; that is to say, for soap and other requisites ; 
 because, excepting my sheets, I wash my own things ; 
 that is another of my extravagances, — a good laundress 
 would pretty well ruin me ; while, as I am a very quick 
 and good ironer, the expense is principally that of my 
 own time. During the five winter months I burn a load 
 and a half of wood, while I consume about four or five 
 14 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 sous' worth of oil for my lamp daily ; that makes it cost 
 me about eighty francs a year for fire and lights." 
 
 " So that you have, in fact, scarcely one hundred 
 francs to clothe yourself, and find you in pocket 
 money." 
 
 « No more ; yet out of that sum I managed to save 
 my three francs and a half." 
 
 " But your gowns, your shoes, — this smart little 
 cap?" 
 
 " As for caps, I never wear one but when I go out, so 
 that is not ruinous ; and, at home, I go bareheaded. 
 As for my gowns and boots, have I not got the Temple 
 to go to for them ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes, this convenient, handy Temple ! So you 
 buy there ? " 
 
 "All sorts of pretty and excellent dresses. Why, 
 only imagine, great ladies are accustomed to give 
 their old, cast-off gowns, etc., to their maids. When I 
 say old, I mean that, perhaps, they have worn them for 
 a month or two, just to ride out in the carriage. Well, 
 and then the ladies' maids sell them to the persons who 
 have shops at the Temple for almost nothing. Just 
 look at the nice dark merino dress I have on ; well, I 
 only gave fourteen francs for it, when, I make no doubt, 
 it cost at least sixty, and had scarcely been put on. I 
 altered it to fit myself ; and I flatter myself it does me 
 credit." 
 
 " Indeed, it does, and very great credit, too. Yes, I 
 begin to see now, thanks to the Temple, you really may 
 contrive to make a hundred francs a year suffice for 
 your dress." 
 
 " To be sure ; why, I can buy in the summer sweet 
 pretty gowns for five or six francs; boots, like these I 
 have on, and almost new, for two or three francs a pair ; 
 just look at my boots. Now, would not any one say 
 they had been made for me ? " said Rigolette, suddenly 
 stopping, and holding up one of her pretty little feet, 
 15 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 really very nicely set off by the well-fitting boot she 
 wore. 
 
 " It is, indeed, a charging foot ; but you must have 
 some difficulty in getting fitted. However, I suppose, 
 at the Temple, they keep shoes and boots of all sizes, 
 from a woman's to a child's." 
 
 " Ah, neighbour, I begin to find out what a terrible 
 flatterer you are. However, after what I have told you, 
 you must see now that a young girl, who is careful, and 
 has only herself to keep, may manage to live respectably 
 on thirty sous a day ; to be sure, the four hundred and 
 fifty francs I brought out of prison with me helped me 
 on famously, for when people saw that I had my own 
 furniture in my apartments, they felt more confidence 
 in entrusting me with work to take home. I was 
 some time, though, before I met with employment. 
 Fortunately for me, I had kept by me as much money 
 as enabled me to live three months without earning 
 anything." 
 
 " Shall I own to you that, under so gay and giddy a 
 manner, I scarcely expected to hear so much sound 
 sense as that uttered by your pretty mouth, my good 
 neighbour ? " 
 
 " Ah ! but let me tell you that, when one is all alone 
 in the world, and has no wish to be under any obliga- 
 tion, it is quite necessary, as the proverb says, to mind 
 how we build our nest, to take care of it when it is 
 built." 
 
 "And certainly yours is as charming a nest as the 
 most fastidious bird could desire." 
 
 " Yes, isn't it ? for, as I say, I never refuse myself 
 anything. Now, I consider my chamber as above my 
 means ; in fact, too handsome for one like me ; then I 
 have two birds ; always, at least, two pots of flowers 
 on my mantelpiece, without reckoning those on the 
 window-ledges ; and yet, as I told you, I had actually 
 got three francs and a half in my money-box, towards 
 16 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 the ornaments I hoped some day to be able to buy for 
 my mantelpiece." 
 
 " And what became of this store ? " 
 
 " Oh, why, lately, when I saw the poor Morels so 
 very, very wretched, I said to myself, 1 What is the use 
 of hoarding up these stupid pieces of money, and letting 
 them lie idle in a money-box, when good and honest 
 people are actually starving for want of them ? ' So I 
 took out the three francs, and lent them to Morel. 
 When I say lent, I mean I told him I only lent them, to 
 spare his feelings ; but, of course, I never meant to have 
 them back again." 
 
 " Yes, but my dear neighbour, you cannot refuse to let 
 them repay you, now they are so differently situated." 
 
 " Why, no ; I think if Morel were to offer them to 
 me now, I should not refuse them ; it will, at any rate, 
 enable me to begin my store for buying the chimney 
 ornaments I do so long to possess. You would scarcely 
 believe how silly I am ; but I almost dream of a beauti- 
 ful clock, such a one as I showed you just now, and two 
 lovely vases, one on each side." 
 
 " But, then, you should think a little of the future." 
 
 " What future ? " 
 
 " Suppose you were to be ill, for instance." 
 
 " Me ill ? Oh, the idea ! " And the fresh, hearty 
 laugh of Rigolette resounded through the street. 
 
 " Well, why should you not be ? " 
 
 " Do I look like a person likely to be sick ? " 
 
 " Certainly I never saw a more bright or blooming 
 countenance." 
 
 " Well, then, what could possibly have put it into 
 your head to talk such nonsense as to suppose I 
 could ever be ill ? " 
 
 " Nay, but — " 
 
 " Why, I am only eighteen years of age, and, consid- 
 ering the sort of life I lead, there is no chance of such a 
 thing. I rise at five o'clock, winter or summer ; I am 
 17 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 never up after ten, or, at latest, eleven ; I eat sufficient 
 to satisfy my appetite, which certainly is not a very 
 great one ; I do not suffer from exposure to cold ; I 
 work all day, singing as merrily as a lark ; and at night 
 I sleep like a dormouse. My heart is free, light, and 
 happy. My employers are so well satisfied with what I 
 do for them, that I am quite sure not to want for work ; 
 so what is there for me to be ill about ? It really is too 
 amusing to hear you try to talk sense, and only utter 
 nonsense ! Me ill ! " And, at the very absurdity of the 
 idea, Rigolette again burst into an immoderate fit of 
 laughter, so loud and prolonged that a stout gentleman 
 who was walking before her, carrying a dog under his 
 arm, turned around quite angrily, believing all this 
 mirth was excited by his presence. 
 
 Resuming her composure, Rigolette slightly curtseyed 
 to the stout individual, and pointing to the animal under 
 his arm, said : 
 
 " Is your dog so very tired, sir ? " 
 
 The fat man grumbled out some indistinct reply, and 
 continued on his way. 
 
 " My dear neighbour," said Rodolph, " are you losing 
 your senses ? " 
 
 " It is your fault if I am." 
 
 " How so ? " 
 
 " Because you talk such nonsense to me." 
 
 " Do you call my saying that perhaps you might be 
 ill, talking foolishly ? " 
 
 And, once more overcome by the irresistible mirth 
 awakened by the absurdity of Rodolph's suggestion, Rig- 
 olette again relapsed into long and hearty fits of laugh- 
 ter; while Rodolph, deeply struck by this blind, yet 
 happy reliance upon the future, felt angry with himself 
 for having tried to shake it, though he almost shuddered 
 as he pictured to himself the havoc a single month's ill- 
 ness would make in this peaceful mode of life. Then 
 the implicit reliance entertained by Rigolette on the sta- 
 18 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 bility of her employ, and her youthful courage, her sole 
 treasures, struck Rodolph as breathing the very essence 
 of pure and contented innocence ; for the confidence ex- 
 pressed by the young dressmaker arose neither from 
 recklessness nor improvidence, but from an instinctive 
 dependence and belief in that divine justice which would 
 never forsake a virtuous and industrious creature, — a 
 simple girl, whose greatest crime was in relying too 
 confidently on the blessed gifts of youth and health, the 
 precious boon of a heavenly benefactor. Do the birds 
 of the air remember, as they flit on gay and agile, wing 
 amidst the blue skies of summer, or skim lightly over 
 the sweet-smelling fields of blooming lucerne, that bleak, 
 cold winter must follow so much enjoyment ? 
 
 " Then," said Rodolph to the grisette, " it seems you 
 have no wish for anything more than you already 
 possess ? " 
 
 " No, really I have not." 
 
 " Positively, nothing you desire ? " 
 
 " No, I tell you. Stay, yes, now I recollect, there are 
 those sweet pretty chimney ornaments ; but I shall be 
 sure to have them some of these days, though I do not 
 know exactly when ; but still, they do so run in my 
 head, that, sooner than be disappointed, I will sit up all 
 night to work." 
 
 " And besides these ornaments ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing more ; no, I cannot recollect any one 
 other thing I care for more especially now." 
 
 " Why now, particularly ? " 
 
 " Because, yesterday, if you had asked me the same 
 question, I should have replied, there was nothing I 
 wanted more than an agreeable neighbour in your apart- 
 ments, to give me an opportunity of showing all the 
 little acts of kindness I have been accustomed to per- 
 form, and to receive nice little attentions in return." 
 
 " Well, but you know, my dear neighbour, we have 
 already entered into an agreement to be mutually ser- 
 19 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 viceable to each other ; you will look after my linen for 
 me, and I shall clean up and polish your chamber for 
 you ; and besides attending to my linen, you are to 
 wake me every morning early by tapping against the 
 wainscot." 
 
 " And do you think you have named all I shall expect 
 you to do ? " 
 
 « What else can I do ?" 
 
 " Oh, bless you, you have not yet come to the end of 
 your services ! Why, do you not intend to take me out 
 every Sunday, either to the Boulevards or beyond the 
 barriers ? You know that is the only day I can enjoy a 
 little pleasure." 
 
 " To be sure I do ; and when summer comes we will 
 go into the country." 
 
 " No, no, I hate the country ! I cannot bear to be any- 
 where but in Paris. Yet I used, once upon a time, to 
 go, out of good nature, with a young friend of mine, who 
 was with me in prison, to visit Meudon and St. Ger- 
 main. My friend was a very nice, good girl, and be- 
 cause she had such a sweet voice, and was always 
 singing, people used to call her the Goualeuse." 
 
 " And what has become of her ? " 
 
 " I don't know. She spent all the money she brought 
 with her out of prison, without seeming to have much 
 pleasure for it; she was inclined to be mournful and 
 serious, though kind and sympathising to every one. At 
 the time we used to go out together I had not met with 
 any work to do, but directly I procured employment, I 
 never allowed myself a holiday. I gave her my address, 
 but, as she never came to see me, I suppose she, like my- 
 self, was too busy to spare the time. But I dare say you 
 don't care to hear any more about her ; I only men- 
 tioned it because I wanted to show you that it is no use 
 asking me to go into the country with you, for I never 
 did, and never will go there, except with the young 
 friend I was telling you about; but whenever you can 
 20 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 afford to take me out to dinner or to the play, I shall be 
 quite ready to accompany you, and when it does not 
 suit you to spend the money, or when you have none to 
 spend, why then we will take a walk, and have a good 
 look at the shops, which is almost the nicest thing I 
 know, unless it is buying at them. And I promise you, 
 you shall have no reason to feel ashamed of my appear- 
 ance, let us go out among ever such company. Oh, 
 when I wear my dark blue levantine silk gown, I flatter 
 myself I do look like somebody ! It is such a love of a 
 dress, and fits me so beautifully ! I never wear it but 
 on Sundays, and then I put on such a love of a lace cap, 
 trimmed with shaded orange-colour riband, which looks 
 so well with dark hair like mine ; then I have some such 
 elegant boots of satin hue, made for me, not bought at 
 the Temple ! And last of all comes such a shawl ! Oh, 
 neighbour, I doubt if you ever walked with any one in 
 such perfect beauty ; it is a real bourre-de-soie, in imita- 
 tion of cashmere. I quite expect we shall be stared at 
 and admired by every one as we go along ; the men will 
 look back as they pass me, and say, ' Upon my word 
 that's an uncommon pretty-looking girl, — she is, 'pon 
 honour ! ' Then the women will cry, 1 What a stylish- 
 looking man ! Do you see that tall, thin person ? I 
 declare, he has such a fashionable appearance that he 
 might pass as somebody if he liked ; what a becoming 
 and handsome moustachio he has ! ' And between our- 
 selves, neighbour, I quite agree with these remarks, and 
 especially about the moustachio, for I dearly love to see 
 a man wear them. Unfortunately M. Germain did not 
 wear a moustachio, on account of the situation he held ; 
 I believe his employer did not permit his young men to 
 wear them. To be sure, M. Cabrion did wear mous- 
 tachios, but then, his were quite red, like his great 
 bushy beard, and I hate those huge beards ; and besides, 
 I did not like Cabrion for two other reasons ; one was, 
 he used to play all kinds of scampish tricks out in the 
 21 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 street, and the other thing I disliked was his tormenting 
 poor old Pipelet as he did. Certainly, M. Giraudeau, 
 the person who lived next to me before M. Cabrion, was 
 rather a smart-looking man, and dressed very well ; but 
 then he squinted, and at first that used to put me out 
 very much, because he always seemed to be looking past 
 me at some one by my side, and I always found myself, 
 without thinking of it, turning around to see who it 
 could be." 
 
 And here Rigolette indulged in another peal of merry 
 laughter. 
 
 As Rodolph listened to all this childish and voluble 
 talk, he felt almost at a loss how to estimate the preten- 
 sions of the grisette to be considered of first-rate pru- 
 dence and virtue ; sometimes the very absence of all 
 reserve in her communications, and the recollection of 
 the great bolt on her door, made him conclude that she 
 bore a general and platonic affection only for every 
 occupant of the chamber adjoining her own, and that 
 her interest in them was nothing more than that of a 
 sister ; but again he smiled at the credulity which could 
 believe such a thing possible, when the unprotected con- 
 dition of the young dressmaker, and the fascinations of 
 Messrs. Giraudeau, Cabrion, and Germain were taken 
 into account. Still, the frankness and originality of 
 Rigolette made him pause in the midst of his doubts, 
 and refuse to allow him to judge harshly of the ingenu- 
 ous and light-hearted being who tripped beside him. 
 
 " I am delighted at the way you have disposed of my 
 Sundays," said Rodolph, gaily. " I see plainly we shall 
 have some capital treats." 
 
 " Stop a little, Mr. Extravagance, and let me tell you 
 how I mean to regulate our expenses ; in the summer 
 we can dine beautifully, either at the Chartreuse or the 
 Montmartre hermitage, for three francs, then half a 
 dozen quadrilles or waltzes, and a ride upon the wooden 
 horses, — oh, I do so love riding on horseback ! — well, 
 ' 22 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 that will bring it altogether to about five francs, not a 
 farthing more, I assure you. Do you waltz ? " 
 " Yes, very well." 
 
 "I am glad of that. M. Cabrion always trod on my 
 toes, so that he quite put me out ; and then, too, by way 
 of a joke, he used to throw fulminating balls about on 
 the ground ; so at last the people at the Chartreuse 
 would not allow us to be admitted there." 
 
 " Oh, I promise you to be very well behaved whenever 
 we are met together ; and as for the fulminating balls, 
 I promise you never to have anything to do with 
 them ; but when winter comes, how shall we manage 
 then ? " 
 
 " Why, in the winter we shall be able to dine very 
 comfortably for forty sous. I think people never care so 
 much for eating in the winter as summer ; so then we 
 shall have three francs left to pay for our going to the 
 play, for I shall not allow you to exceed a hundred sous 
 for the whole of our expenses, and that is a great deal of 
 money to spend in pleasure ; but then, if you were out 
 alone, it would cost you much more at the tavern or 
 billiard-rooms, where you would only meet a parcel of 
 low, ignorant men, smelling of tobacco enough to choke 
 you.*" Is it not much better for you to pass a pleasant 
 day with a nice little, cheerful, good-tempered compan- 
 ion, who, in return for the holiday you so agreeably 
 pass with her, will contrive to make up the extra ex- 
 pense she costs you by hemming your handkerchiefs, 
 and looking after your domestic affairs ? " 
 
 " Nothing can be more advantageous, as far as I am 
 concerned ; but suppose any of my friends should meet 
 me walking with my pretty neighbour, what then ? " 
 
 " What then ! Why, they would just look at you, and 
 then at me ; and then they would smile and say, ' That's 
 a lucky fellow, that Rodolph ! ' " 
 
 " You know my name, do you ? " 
 
 " Why, of course, when I heard that the chamber ad- 
 23* 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARTS. 
 
 joining mine was let, I inquired the name of the person 
 who had taken it." 
 
 " Yes, I dare say every one who met us out together 
 would remark, as you observe, what a lucky fellow I 
 was ; then the next thing would be to envy me." 
 
 " So much the better." 
 
 " They would believe I was perfectly happy." 
 
 " Of course, of course they would." 
 
 " All the while I should only be so in appearance." 
 
 " Well, what does that signify ? As long as people 
 think you happy, what does it matter whether you are 
 really so or not ? Men neither require nor care for 
 more than outward show." 
 
 " But your reputation might suffer." 
 
 Rigolette burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. 
 
 " The reputation of a grisette ! " said she. "Do you 
 suppose that any person believes in such a phenomenon ? 
 Ah, if I had either father, mother, brother, or sister, for 
 their sakes I should fear what people might say of me, 
 and be anxious about the world's opinion ; but I am 
 alone in the world, and have no person to consider but 
 myself, so, while I know myself to be free from blame 
 or reproach, I care not for what any one may say of 
 me, or think either." 
 
 " But still I should be very unhappy." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " To pass for being a happy as well as a lucky fellow, 
 when, after the fashion of Papa Cr^tu's dinner, I should 
 be expected to make a meal off a dry crust, while all the 
 tempting dishes contained in a cookery-book were being 
 read to me." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! you will be quite contented to live as 
 I describe. You will find me so grateful for every little 
 act of kindness, so easily pleased, and so little trouble- 
 some, that I know you will say, ' Why, after all, I may 
 as well spend my Sunday with her as with any one else.' 
 If you have any time in the evening, and have no objec- 
 24 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 tion to come and sit with me, you can have the use of 
 my fire and light. If it would not tire you to read 
 aloud, you would amuse me by reading some nice novel 
 or romance. Better do that than lose your money at 
 cards or billiards ; otherwise, if you are occupied at your 
 office, or prefer going to a caf£, you can just bid me good 
 night when you come in, if I happen still to be up ; but 
 should I have gone to bed, why then I will wish you 
 good morning at an early hour next day, by tapping 
 against your wainscot to awaken you. Why, M. Ger- 
 main, my last fellow lodger, used to pass all his evenings 
 with me in that manner, and never complained of their 
 being dull. He read me all Walter Scott's novels in the 
 course of the winter, which was really very amusing. 
 Sometimes, when it chanced to be a wet Sunday, he 
 would go and buy something at the pastry-cook's, and 
 we used to have a nice little dinner in my room ; and 
 afterwards we amused ourselves with reading ; and we 
 liked that almost as well as going to the theatre. You 
 see by this that I am not hard to please, but, on the con- 
 trary, am always ready to do what I can to make things 
 pleasant and agreeable. And then you were talking 
 about illness. Oh, if ever you should be ill, then, in- 
 deed, I should be a comfort to you, a real Sister of 
 Charity ! Only ask the Morels what sort of a nurse I 
 am. You don't half know your own good fortune, M. 
 Rodolph ; you have drawn a real prize in the lottery of 
 good luck to have me for a neighbour, I can assure you." 
 
 " I quite agree with you ; but I always was lucky. 
 Apropos of your late fellow lodger, M. Germain, where 
 is he at present ? " 
 
 " In Paris, I believe." 
 
 " Then you do not see much of him now ? " 
 " No, he has never been to see me since he quitted 
 the house." 
 
 " But where is he living ? And what is he doing at 
 present ? " 
 
 25 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Why do you want to know ? " 
 
 " Because," said Rodolph, smiling, " I am jealous of 
 him, and I wish — " 
 
 " Jealous ! " exclaimed Rigolette, bursting into a fit of 
 laughter. " La, bless you, there is no occasion for that, 
 poor fellow ! " 
 
 " But, seriously, my good neighbour, I wish most par- 
 ticularly to obtain M. Germain's address, or to be 
 enabled to meet him. You know where he lives ; and 
 without any boast, I think I have good reason to expect 
 you would trust me with the secret of his residence, and 
 to believe me quite incapable of revealing again the in- 
 formation I ask of you, assuring you most solemnly it is 
 for his own interest more than mine I am solicitous of 
 finding him." 
 
 "And seriously, my good neighbour, although it is 
 probable and possible your intentions towards M. Ger- 
 main are as you report them, I am not at liberty to give 
 you the address of M. Germain, he having strictly and 
 and expressly forbidden my so doing to any person what- 
 ever ; therefore, when I refuse to tell you, you may be 
 quite sure it is because I really am not at liberty to do 
 so ; and that ought not to make you feel offended with 
 me. If you had entrusted me with a secret, you would 
 be pleased, would you not, to have me as careful of it, 
 and determined not to reveal it, as I am about M. Ger- 
 main's affair ? " . 
 
 « Nay, but — " 
 
 " Neighbour, once and for all, do not say anything 
 more on this subject. I have made a promise which I 
 will keep faithfully and honourably ; so now you know 
 my mind, and if you ask me a hundred times, I shall 
 answer you just the same." 
 
 Spite of her thoughtlessness and frivolity, the young 
 dressmaker pronounced these last words with so much 
 firmness that, to his great regret, Rodolph perceived the 
 impossibility of gaining the desired information respect- 
 26 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 ing Germain through her means ; and his mind revolted 
 at the idea of laying any snare to entrap her into a be- 
 trayal of her secret ; he therefore, after a slight pause, 
 gaily replied : 
 
 " Well, let us say no more about it, then ; but, upon 
 my life, I don't wonder at you, who can so well keep the 
 secrets of others, guarding your own so closely." 
 
 " Me have secrets ? " cried Bigolette. " I only wish I 
 had some more secrets of my own ; it must be very 
 amusing to have secrets.". 
 
 "Do you really mean to assert that you have not 
 a 4 nice little secret ' about some love-affair ? " 
 
 " Love-affair ! " 
 
 " Are you going to persuade me you have never been 
 in love ? " said Rodolph, looking fixedly at Rigolette, the 
 better to read the truth in her telltale features. 
 
 " Been in love ? Why, of course I have, with M. 
 Giraudeau, M. Cabrion, M. Germain, and you ! " 
 
 " Are you sure you loved them just as you do me, 
 neither more nor less ? " 
 
 " Oh, really, I cannot tell you so very exactly ! If 
 anything, I should say less; because I had to become 
 accustomed to the squinting eyes of M. Giraudeau, the 
 disagreeable jokes and red beard of M. Cabrion, and 
 the low spirits and constant dejection of M. Germain, 
 for the poor young man was very sad, and always 
 seemed to have a heavy load on his mind, while you, 
 on the contrary, took my fancy directly I saw you." 
 
 " Come now, my pretty neighbour, you must not be 
 angry with me ; I am going to speak candidly and 
 sincerely, like an old friend." 
 
 " Oh, don't be afraid to say anything to me ; I am 
 very good-natured ; and besides, I feel certain you are 
 too kind ; you could never have the heart to say any- 
 thing to me that would give me pain." 
 
 " You are quite right ; but do tell me truly, have you 
 never had any lovers ? " 
 
 27 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 " Lovers ! I should think not ! What time have I for 
 such things ? " 
 
 « What has time got to do with it ? " 
 
 " Why, everything, to be sure. In the first place, I 
 should be jealous as a tigress ; and I should be continu- 
 ally worrying myself with one idea or another ; and let 
 me ask you whether you think it is likely I could afford 
 to lose two or three hours a day in fretting and grieving. 
 And then, suppose my lover were to turn out false ! Oh, 
 what tears it would cost me ; how wretched I should be ! 
 All that sort of thing would put me sadly behindhand 
 with my work, I can tell you." 
 
 " Well, but all lovers are not faithless and a cause of 
 grief and sorrow to their mistress." 
 
 " Oh, bless you ! It would be still worse for me, if he 
 were all goodness and truth. Why, then I should not 
 be able to live without him for a single hour ; and as 
 most probably he would be obliged to remain all day in 
 his office, or shop, or manufactory, I should be like some 
 poor, restless spirit all the time of his absence. I should 
 imagine all sorts of things, picture to myself his being 
 at that moment pleasantly engaged in company with one 
 he loved better than myself. And then, if he forsook 
 me, oh, Heaven only knows what I might be tempted 
 to do in my despair, or what might become of me. One 
 thing is very certain, that my work would suffer for it ; 
 and then what should I do ? Why, quietly as I live at 
 present, it is much as I can manage to live by working 
 from twelve to fifteen hours a day. Where should I be, 
 if I were to lose three or four days a week by tormenting 
 myself ? How could I ever catch up all that time ? Oh, 
 I never could ; it would be quite impossible ! I should 
 be obliged, then, to take a situation, to live under the 
 control of a mistress; but no, no, I will never bring 
 myself to that, — I love my liberty too well." 
 
 « Your liberty ? " 
 
 " Yes, I might go as forewoman to the person who 
 
 28 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 keeps the warehouse for which I work ; she would give 
 me four hundred francs a year, with board and lodging." 
 " And you will not accept it ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ! I should then be the slave and servant 
 of another ; whereas, however humble my home, at least 
 there is no one there to control me. I am free to come 
 and go as I please. I owe nothing to any one. I have 
 good health, good courage, good heart, and good spirits ; 
 and now that I can say a good neighbour also, what is 
 there left to desire ? " 
 
 " Then you have never thought of marriage ? " 
 
 " Marriage, indeed ! Why, what would be the use of 
 my thinking about it, when, poor as I am, I could not 
 expect to meet with a husband better off than myself ? 
 Look at the poor Morels ; just see the consequences of 
 burthening yourself with a family before you have the 
 means of providing for one ; whilst, so long as there is 
 only oneself to provide for, one can always manage 
 somehow." 
 
 " And do you never build castles in the air ? — never 
 dream ? " 
 
 " Dream ? Oh, yes ! — of my chimney ornaments ; but, 
 besides them, what can I have to wish for ? " 
 
 " But, suppose now some relation you never heard of 
 in your life were to die, and leave you a nice little for- 
 tune — twelve hundred francs a year, for instance — you 
 have made five hun,dred sufficient to supply all your 
 wants ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it might prove a good thing ; perhaps a bad 
 one." 
 
 " How could it be a bad one ? " 
 
 " Because I am happy and contented as I am ; but I 
 do not know what I might be if I came to be rich. I 
 can assure you that, when, after a hard day's work, I go 
 to bed in my own snug little room, when my lamp is ex- 
 tinguished, and by the glimmer of the few cinders left 
 in my stove I see my neat, clean little apartment, my 
 29 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 curtains, my chest of drawers, my chairs, my birds, my 
 watch, my table covered with the work confided to me, 
 left all ready to begin the first thing in the morning, and 
 I say to myself, all this is mine, — I have no one to thank 
 for it but myself, — oh, neighbour, the very thoughts lull 
 me into such a happy state of mind that I fall asleep 
 believing myself the most fortunate creature on earth to 
 be so surrounded with comforts. But, I declare, here 
 we are at the Temple ! You must own it is a beautiful 
 object ? " 
 
 Although not partaking of the profound admiration 
 expressed by Rigolette at the first glimpse of the Tem- 
 ple, Rodolph was, nevertheless, much struck by the sin- 
 gular appearance of this enormous bazar with its many 
 diverging passages and dependencies. Towards the mid- 
 dle of the Rue du Temple, not far from the fountain 
 which stands in the corner of a large square, may be 
 seen an immense parallelogram, built of wood, and sur- 
 mounted with a slated roof. This building is the Temple, 
 bounded on the left by the Rue du Petit Thouars, and on 
 the right by the Rue Perce'e ; it leads to a large circular 
 building, — a colossal rotunda, surrounded with a gallery, 
 forming a sort of arcade. A long opening, intersecting 
 this parallelogram in its length and breadth, divides it 
 into two equal parts, which are again divided and sub- 
 divided into an infinity of small lateral and transverse 
 openings, crossing each other in all directions, and shel- 
 tered by the roof of the building from all severity of 
 weather. In this bazar new merchandise is generally 
 prohibited ; but the smallest fragment of any sort of 
 material, the merest morsel of iron, brass, lead, or 
 pewter, will here find both a buyer and a seller. 
 
 Here are to be .found dealers in pieces of every col- 
 oured cloth, of all ages, qualities, shades, and capabilities, 
 for the service of such . as wish to repair or alter dam- 
 aged or ill-fitting garments. Some of the shops present 
 huge piles of old shoes, some trodden down of heel, 
 30 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 others twisted, torn, worn, split, and in holes, presenting 
 a mass of nameless, formless, colourless objects, among 
 which are grimly visible some species of fossil soles 
 about an inch thick, studded with thick nails, resem- 
 bling the door of a prison and hard as a horse's hoof, 
 the actual skeletons of shoes whose other component 
 parts have long since been consumed by the devouring 
 hand of Time. Yet all this mouldy, dried up accumula- 
 tion of decaying rubbish will find a willing purchaser, an 
 extensive body of merchants trading in this particular 
 line. 
 
 Then there are the vendors of gimps, fringes, bindings, 
 cords, tassels, and edgings of silk, cotton, or thread, aris- 
 ing out of the demolition of curtains past all cure and 
 defying all reparation. Other enterprising individuals 
 devote themselves to the sale of females' hats and bon- 
 nets, these articles only reaching their emporium by the 
 means of the dealers in old clothes, and after having per- 
 formed the strangest journeys and undergone the most 
 surprising transformations, the most singular changes of 
 colour. 
 
 In order that the article traded in may not take up too 
 much room in a warehouse ordinarily the size of a large 
 box, these bonnets are carefully folded in half, then flat- 
 tened and laid upon each other as closely as they can be 
 packed, with the exception of the brim. They are treated 
 in every respect the same as herrings, requiring to be 
 stowed in a cask. By these means it is almost incredi- 
 ble what a quantity of these usually fragile articles may 
 be accommodated in a small space of about four feet 
 square. 
 
 Should a purchaser present himself, the various speci- 
 mens are removed from the high pressure to which they 
 have been exposed, the vendor, with a degagZ air, gives 
 the crown a dexterous blow with his fist, which makes 
 the centre rise to its accustomed situation, then presses 
 the front out upon his knee, concluding by holding up, 
 U 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 with an air of intense satisfaction at his own ingenuity, 
 an object so wild, so whimsical, and withal so irresistibly- 
 striking, as to remind one of those traditional costumes 
 ascribed for ages past to fishwomen, apple-women, or any 
 whose avocation involves the necessity of carrying a 
 basket on the head. 
 
 Farther on, at the sign of the Gout du Jour, beneath 
 the arcades of the Rotunda, elevated at the end of the 
 large opening which intersects the Temple and divides it 
 into two parts, are suspended myriads of vestments of all 
 colours, forms, and fashions, even more various and ex- 
 traordinary in their respective styles than the bonnets 
 just described. There may be seen stylish coats of un- 
 bleached linen, adorned with three rows of brass buttons 
 d la hussar de, and sprucely ornamented with a small fur 
 collar of fox-skin ; great-coats, originally bottle-green, 
 but changed, by age and service, to the hue of the pis- 
 tachio nut, edged with black braid, and set off with a 
 bright flaming lining of blue and yellow plaid, giving 
 quite a fresh and youthful appearance, and producing 
 the most genteel and tasty effect ; coats that, when new, 
 bore the appellation, as regards their cut, of being d 
 queue de Morue, of a dark drab colour, with velvet, shag, 
 or plush collar, and further decorated with buttons, once 
 silver-gilt, but now changed to a dull coppery hue. In 
 the same emporium may be observed sundry pelisses or 
 polonaises of maroon-coloured cloth, with cat-skin collar, 
 trimmed with braiding, and rich in brandenburgs, tassels, 
 and cords. Not far from these are displayed a great 
 choice of dressing-gowns most artistically constructed 
 out of old cloaks, whose triple collars and capes have 
 been removed, the inside lined with remnants of printed 
 cotton, the most in request being blue or dark green, 
 made up here and there with pieces of various distinct 
 shades, and embroidered with old braid, and lined with 
 red cotton, on which is traced a flowing design in vivid 
 orange, collar and cuffs similarly adorned; a cord for 
 32 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 the waist, made out of an old bell-rope, serves as a 
 finish to these elegant deshabilles so exultingly worn by- 
 Robert Macaire. We shall briefly pass over a mass of 
 costumes more or less uncouth, in the midst of which 
 may be found some real and authentic relics of royalty 
 or greatness, dragged by the revolution of time from the 
 palaces of the rich and mighty to the dingy shelves of 
 the Rotunda of the Temple. 
 
 These displays of old shoes, hats, and coats are the 
 grotesque parts of the bazar, — the place where rags and 
 faded finery seek to set up their claim to notice. But it 
 must be allowed, or rather distinctly asserted, that the 
 vast establishment we are describing is of immense utility 
 to the poor or persons in mediocre circumstances. There 
 they may purchase, at an amazing decrease of price, most 
 excellent articles, nearly new, and whose wear has been 
 little or none. One side of the Temple was devoted to 
 articles of bedding, and contained piles of blankets, 
 sheets, mattresses, and pillows. Farther on were car- 
 pets, curtains, every description of useful household 
 utensil. Close at hand were stores of wearing apparel, 
 shoes, stockings, caps, aiid bonnets, for all ages, as well 
 as all classes and conditions. 
 
 All these articles were scrupulously clean and devoid 
 of anything that could offend or shock the most fastidi- 
 ous person. Those who have never visited this bazar 
 will scarcely credit in how short a space of time, and 
 with how little money, a cart may be filled with every 
 requisite for the complete fitting out of two or three 
 utterly destitute families. 
 
 Rodolph was particularly struck with the manner, at 
 once attentive, eager, and cheerful, of the various dealers, 
 as, standing at the door of their shops, they solicited the 
 patronage and custom of the passers-by. Their mode of 
 address, at once familiar and respectful, seemed alto- 
 gether unlike the tone of the present day. Scarcely had 
 Rigolette and her companion entered that part of the 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 place devoted to the sale of bedding, than they were sur- 
 rounded by the most seducing offers and solicitations. 
 
 " Walk in, sir, and look at my mattresses, if you 
 please," said one. " They are quite new. I will just 
 open a corner to show you how beautifully white and 
 soft the wool is, — more like the wool of a lamb than a 
 sheep." 
 
 " My pretty lady, step in and see my beautiful, fine 
 white sheets. They are better than new, for the first 
 stiffness has been taken out of them. They are soft as 
 a glove, and strong as iron." 
 
 " Come, my new-married couple, treat yourselves to 
 one of my handsome counterpanes. Only see how soft, 
 light, and warm it is, — quite as good as eider-down, — 
 every bit the same as new, — never been used twenty 
 times. Now, then, my good lady, persuade your hus- 
 band to treat you to one. Let me have the pleasure of 
 serving you, and I will fit you up for housekeeping as 
 cheaply as you can desire. Oh, you'll be pleased, I 
 know, — you'll come again to see Mother Bouvard! 
 You will find I keep everything. I bought a splendid 
 lot of second-hand goods yesterday. Pray walk in and 
 let me have the pleasure of showing them to you. Come, 
 you may as well see if you don't buy. I shall charge 
 you nothing for looking at them." 
 
 " I tell you what, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette, 
 " this fat old lady shall have the preference. She takes 
 us for husband and wife. I am so pleased with her for 
 the idea that I decide upon laying out my money at her 
 shop." 
 
 " Well, then, let it be the fat old lady," said Rigolette. 
 " I like her appearance, too." 
 
 Rigolette and her companion then went into Mother 
 Bouvard's. By a magnanimity, perhaps unexampled 
 before in the Temple, the rivals of Mother Bouvard 
 made no disturbance at the preference awarded to her 
 One of her neighbours, indeed, went so far as to say : 
 34 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 " So long as it is Mother Bouvard, and no one else, 
 that has this customer ; she has a family, and is the 
 dowager and the honour of the Temple." 
 
 It was, indeed, impossible to have a face more prepos- 
 sessing, more open, and more frank than that of the 
 dowager of the Temple. 
 
 " Here, my pretty little woman," she said to Rigolette, 
 who was looking at sundry articles with the eye of a con- 
 noisseur, « this is the second-hand bargain I told you of : 
 two bed furnitures and bedding complete, and as good as 
 new. If you would like a small old secretaire very cheap, 
 here is one (and Mother Bouvard pointed to one). I had 
 it in the same lot. I do not usually buy furniture, but I 
 could not refuse this, for the poor people of whom I had 
 it appeared to be so very unhappy ! Poor lady ! it was 
 the sale of this piece of furniture which seemed to cut 
 her to the very heart. I dare say it was a family piece 
 of ' furniture.' " 
 
 At these words, and whilst the shopkeeper was settling 
 with Rigolette as to the prices of the various articles of 
 purchase, Rodolph was attentively looking at the secre- 
 taire which Mother Bouvard had pointed out. It was 
 one of those ancient pieces of rosewood furniture, almost 
 triangular in shape, closed by a front panel, which let 
 down, and, supported by two long brass hinges, served 
 for a writing-table. In the centre of this panel, which 
 was inlaid with ornaments of wood of different patterns, 
 Rodolph observed a cipher let in, of ebony, and which 
 consisted of an M. and an R., intertwined and surmounted 
 with a count's coronet. He conjectured, therefore, that 
 the last possessor of this piece of furniture was a person 
 in an elevated rank of society. His curiosity increased, 
 and he looked at the secretaire with redoubled scrutiny ; 
 he opened the drawers mechanically, one after the other, 
 when, having some difficulty in drawing out the last, and 
 trying to discover the obstacle, he perceived, and drew 
 carefully out, a sheet of paper, half shut up between the 
 35 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 drawer and the bottom of the opening. Whilst Rigolette 
 was concluding her bargain with Mother Bouvard, Rodolph 
 was engrossed in examining what he had found. From 
 the numerous erasures which covered this paper, he per- 
 ceived that it was the copy of an unfinished letter. 
 Rodolph, with considerable difficulty, made out what 
 follows : 
 
 " Sir : Be assured that the most extreme misery alone could 
 compel me to the step which I now take. It is not mistaken 
 pride which causes my scruples, but the absolute want of any and 
 every claim on you for the service which I am about to ask. The 
 sight of my daughter, reduced, as well as myself, to the most 
 frightful destitution, has made me throw aside all hesitation. A 
 few words only as to the cause of the misfortunes which have 
 overwhelmed me. After the death of my husband, all my for- 
 tune was three hundred thousand francs (12,000Z.), which was 
 placed by my brother with M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary ; I 
 received at Angers, whither I had settled with my daughter, the 
 interest of this sum, remitted to me by my brother. You know, 
 sir, the horrible event which put an end to his days. Ruined, as 
 it seems, by secret and unfortunate speculations, he put an end 
 to his existence eight months since. After this sad event, I 
 received a few lines, written by him in desperation before this 
 awful deed. ' When I should peruse them,' he wrote, ' he should 
 no longer exist.' He terminated this letter by informing me 
 that he had not any acknowledgment of the sum which he had 
 placed, in my name, with M. Jacques Ferrand, as that individual 
 never gave any receipt, but was honour and piety itself ; that, 
 therefore, it would be sufficient for me to present myself to that 
 gentleman, and my business would be regularly and satisfactorily 
 adjusted. As soon as I was able to turn my attention to any- 
 thing besides the mournful end of my poor brother, I came to 
 Paris, where I knew no one, sir, but yourself, and you only by 
 the connection that had subsisted between yourself and my hus- 
 band. I have told you that the sum deposited with M. Jacques 
 Ferrand was my entire fortune, and that my brother forwarded 
 to me every six months the interest which arose from that sum. 
 More than a year had elapsed since the last payment, and, con- 
 sequently, I went to M. Jacques Ferrand to ask the amount of 
 him, as I was greatly in want of it. Scarcely was I in his pres- 
 ence, than, without any consideration of my grief, he accused my 
 brother of having borrowed two thousand francs of him, which 
 he had lost by his death, adding, that not only was suicide a 
 36 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 crime before God and man, but, also, that it was an act of rob- 
 bery, of which he, M. Jacques Ferrand, was the victim. I was 
 indignant at such language, for the remarkable probity of my 
 poor brother was well known ; he had, it is true, unknown to me 
 and his friends, lost his fortune in hazardous speculations, but he 
 had died with an unspotted reputation, deeply regretted by all, 
 and not leaving any debt except to his notary. I replied to M. 
 Ferrand, that I authorised him at once to take the two thousand 
 francs, which he claimed from my brother, from the three hun- 
 dred thousand francs of mine, which had been deposited with 
 him. At these words, he looked at me with an air of utter 
 astonishment, and asked me what three hundred thousand francs 
 I alluded to. 1 To those which my brother placed in your hands 
 eighteen months ago, sir, and of which I have, till now, received 
 the interest paid by you through my brother,' I replied, not com- 
 prehending his question. The notary shrugged his shoulders, 
 smiled disdainfully, as if my words were not serious, and replied 
 that, so far from depositing any money with him, my brother 
 had borrowed two thousand francs from him. 
 
 "It is impossible for me to express to you my horror at this 
 reply. ' What, then, has become of this sum ? ' I exclaimed. * My 
 daughter and myself have no other resource, and, if we are 
 deprived of that, nothing remains for us but complete wretched- 
 ness. What will become of us ? ' 'I really don't know,' replied 
 the notary, coldly. 1 It is most probable that your brother, 
 instead of placing this sum with me, as you say, has used it in 
 those unfortunate speculations in which, unknown to any one, he 
 was engaged.' ' It is false, sir ! ' I exclaimed. 1 My brother was 
 honour itself, and, so far from despoiling me and my daughter, 
 he would have sacrificed himself for us. He would never marry, 
 in order that he might leave all he had to my child.' ' Dare you 
 to assert, madame, that I am capable of denying a deposit con- 
 fided in me?' inquired the notary, with indignation, which 
 seemed so honourable and sincere that I replied, 'No, certainly 
 not, sir ; your reputation for probity is well known ; but yet I 
 can never accuse my brother of so cruel an abuse of confidence.' 
 < What are your proofs of this claim ? ' inquired M. Ferrand. ' I 
 have none, sir. Eighteen months since, my brother, who under- 
 took the management of my affairs, wrote to me, saying, " I have 
 an excellent opportunity of obtaining six per cent. ; send me your 
 power of attorney to sell your stock, and I will deposit the three 
 hundred thousand francs, which I will make up, with M. Jacques 
 Ferrand, the notary." I sent the papers which he asked for to 
 my brother, and a few days afterwards he informed me that the 
 investment was made by you, and at the end of six months he 
 
 37 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 remitted to me the interest due.' ' At least, then, you have some 
 letters on this subject, madame ? ' < No, sir ; they were only on 
 family matters, and I did not preserve them.' ' Unfortunately, 
 madame, I cannot do anything in this matter,' replied the 
 notary. 1 If my honesty was not beyond all suspicion, all attack, 
 I should say to you, the courts of law are open to you, — attack 
 me ; the judges will have to choose between the word of an hon- 
 ourable man, who for thirty years has had the esteem of worthy 
 men, and the posthumous declaration of a man who, after being 
 ruined in most foolish undertakings, has found refuge only in 
 suicide. I say to you now, attack me, madame, if you dare, and 
 your brother's memory will be dishonoured ! But I believe you 
 will have the good sense to resign yourself to a misfortune which, 
 no doubt, is very severe, but to which I am an entire stranger.' 
 ' But, sir, I am a mother ! If my fortune is lost, my daughter and 
 I have nothing left but a small stock of furniture ; if that is sold, 
 we have nothing left, sir, — nothing, but the most frightful des- 
 titution staring us in the face.' ' You have been cheated, — it is 
 a misfortune, but I can do nothing in the matter,' answered the 
 notary. < Once more, madame, your brother has deceived you. 
 If you doubt between his word and mine, attack me; go to 
 law, and the judges will decide.' I quitted the notary's in the 
 deepest despair. What could I do in this extremity ? I had no 
 means of proving the validity of my claim ; I was convinced of 
 the strict honour of my brother, and confounded at the asser- 
 tion of M. Ferrand, and having no person to whom I could turn 
 for advice (for you were travelling), and knowing that I must 
 have money to pay for legal opinions and advice, and desiring to 
 preserve the very little that I had left, I dared not commence a 
 suit at law. It was at this juncture — " 
 
 This sketch of the letter ended here, for what followed 
 was covered with ink erasures, which completely blotted 
 out the lines. At the bottom of the page, and in the 
 corner, Rodolph found this kind of memorandum : 
 
 " To write to the Duchesse de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy." 
 
 Rodolph remained deeply thoughtful after the perusal 
 of this fragment of a letter, in which he had found two 
 names whose connection struck him. Although the fresh 
 infamy which appeared to accuse Jacques Ferrand was 
 not proved, yet this man had proved himself so pitiless 
 towards the unhappy Morel, had behaved so shamefully 
 38 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 to Louise, his daughter, that the denial of a deposit, 
 protected by certain impunity, on the part of such a 
 wretch, appeared to him by no means improbable. This 
 mother, who claimed a fortune which had disappeared so 
 strangely, was, doubtless, used to a life of ease and com- 
 fort. Ruined by a sudden blow, and knowing no one 
 in Paris, as the letter said, what must have been the exist- 
 ence of these two females, perhaps utterly destitute and 
 alone in the midst of this vast metropolis ! 
 
 The prince had, as we know, promised sure occupation 
 to madame, by giving her accidentally, and to employ 
 her mind, a part to play in some future work of charity, 
 being certain to find sure misery for her to curtail before 
 his next meeting with that lady. He thought that, 
 perhaps, chance might bring before him some unfortunate 
 and worthy person, who would, as he trusted, interest the 
 heart and imagination of Madame d'Harville. The 
 sketch of the letter which he held in his hands, and 
 the copy of which had, doubtless, never been sent to the 
 person whose assistance was implored, evinced a high 
 and resigned mind, which would revolt from an offer of 
 alms. So, then, how many precautions, how many plans, 
 how much delicacy, must be employed to conceal the 
 source of such generous succour, or to make it accepted ! 
 And, then, how much address to introduce oneself to 
 such a female, in order to judge if she really merited the 
 interest which she seemed capable of inspiring ! Rodolph 
 foresaw in the development of this mysterious affair a 
 multitude of new and touching emotions, which would 
 singularly attract Madame d'Harville in the way he had 
 previously proposed to her. 
 
 " Well, husband," said Rigolette, gaily, to Rodolph, 
 " what is there so interesting in that piece of paper, 
 which you are reading there ? " 
 
 " My little wife," replied Rodolph, " you are very 
 inquisitive ; I will tell you by and by. Have you 
 bought all you want?" 
 
 39 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Yes ; and your poor friends will be set up like 
 kings. There is nothing to do now but to pay ; Ma- 
 dame Bouvard has made every allowance, I must do 
 her that credit." 
 
 " My little wife, an idea occurs to me ; whilst I am 
 paying, suppose you go and choose the clothes for 
 Madame Morel and her children ? I confess my igno- 
 rance on the subject of such purchases. You can tell 
 them to bring everything here, and then all the things 
 will be together, and the poor people will have every- 
 thing at once." 
 
 " You are right, husband. Wait here, and I shall not 
 be long ; I know two shopkeepers here, where I am a 
 regular customer, and I shall find in their shops all I 
 require." 
 
 And Rigolette went out, saying : 
 
 " Madame Bouvard,, take care of my husband, and do 
 not flirt with him, mind, whilst I am gone." 
 
 And then came the laugh, and away the merry maiden 
 ran. 
 
 " I must say, sir," said Mother Bouvard to Rodolph, 
 " that you have a capital little manager there. Peste ! 
 she knows how to make a bargain ! And then she is so 
 prettily behaved and pretty-looking ! red and white, with 
 those large, beautiful black eyes, and such hair ! " 
 
 " Is she not charming ? and ain't I a happy husband, 
 Madame Bouvard ? " 
 
 " As happy a husband as she is a wife, I am sure of 
 that." 
 
 " You are not mistaken. But tell me how much I 
 owe you." 
 
 " Your little lady would only give me three hundred 
 and thirty francs for the whole ; as true as heaven's 
 above us, I only make fifteen francs by the bargain, for 
 I did not try to get the things as cheaply as I might, 
 for I hadn't the heart to bate 'em down ; the people who 
 sold 'em seemed so uncommon miserable ! " 
 
 40 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 " Really ! Were they the same people that you bought 
 this little secretaire of ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and it cuts my heart to think of it ! Only 
 imagine, the day before yesterday there came here a 
 young and still pretty girl, but so pale and thin one 
 could almost see through her ; and you know that pains 
 people that have any feeling at all. Although she was, 
 as they say, neat as a new-made pin, her old threadbare 
 black worsted shawl, her black stuff gown, which was 
 also worn bare, her straw bonnet, in the month of Janu- 
 ary, for she was in mourning, all showed what we call 
 great distress, for I am sure she was a real lady. At 
 last, blushing up to the very eyes, she asked me if I 
 would buy two beds and bedding complete, and a little 
 old secretaire. I said that, as I sold, of course I bought, 
 and that if they would suit me I would have them, but 
 that I must see the things. She then asked me to go 
 with her to her apartment, not far off, on the other side 
 of the Boulevards, in a house on the Quay of St. Mar- 
 tin's Canal. I left my niece in the shop, and followed 
 the lady until we reached a smallish house at the bottom 
 of a court ; we went up to the fourth floor, and, the lady 
 having knocked, the door was opened by a young girl 
 about fourteen years of age, who was also in mourning, 
 and equally pale and thin, but still very, very pretty, so 
 much so that I was quite astonished." 
 
 " Well, and this young girl ? " 
 
 " Was the daughter of the lady in mourning. Though 
 it was very cold, yet a thin gown of black cotton with 
 white spots, and a small, shabby mourning shawl, that 
 was all she had on her." 
 
 " And their rooms were wretched ? " 
 
 " Imagine, sir, two little rooms, very neat, but nearly 
 empty, and so cold that I was almost froze ; there was 
 not a spark of fire in the grate, nor any appearance of 
 there having been any for a very long time. All the 
 furniture was two beds, two chairs, a chest of drawers, 
 41 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 an old portmanteau, and the small secretaire, and on the 
 chest was a parcel, wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief. 
 This small parcel was all the mother and child had left 
 when their furniture was once sold. The landlord had 
 taken the two bedsteads, the chairs, a trunk, and a table, 
 for what was due to him, as the porter said, who had 
 gone up-stairs with us. Then the lady begged me fairly 
 to estimate the mattresses, sheets, curtains, and quilts ; 
 and, as I am an honest woman, sir, although it is my 
 business to buy cheap and sell dear, yet, when I saw the 
 poor young thing with her eyes full of tears, and her 
 mother, who, in spite of her affected calmness, seemed to 
 be weeping in her heart, I offered for the things fifteen 
 francs more than they were worth to sell again, I swear 
 I did ; I agreed, too, just to oblige them, to take this 
 small secretaire, although it is not a sort of thing I ever 
 deal in." 
 
 " I will buy it of you, Madame Bouvard." 
 
 " Will you though ? So much the better, sir, for it is 
 else likely to stay with me for some time ; I took it, as I 
 say, only to oblige the poor lady. I told her then what 
 I would give for the things, and I expected that she 
 would haggle a bit and ask me something more, I did. 
 Then it was that I saw she was not one of the common ; 
 she was in downright misery, she was, and no mistake 
 about it, I am sure ! I says to her, 1 It's worth so much.' 
 She answers me, and says, ' Very well ; let us go back to 
 your shop, and you can pay me there, for we shall not 
 return here again to this house.' Then she says to her 
 daughter, who was sitting on the trunk a-crying, ' Claire, 
 take this bundle.' I remember her name, and I'm sure 
 she called her Claire. Then the young lady got up, but, 
 as she was crossing the room, as she came to the little 
 secretaire she went down on her knees before it, and, 
 dear heart ! how the poor thing did sob ! ' Courage, my 
 dear child; remember some one sees you,' said her 
 mother to her, in a low voice, but yet I heard her. You 
 42 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 may tell, sir, they were poor, but very proud notwith- 
 standing. When the lady gave me the key of the little 
 secretaire, I saw a tear in her red eyes, and it seemed as 
 if her very heart bled at parting with this old piece of 
 furniture ; but she tried to keep up her courage, and not 
 seem downcast before strangers. Then she told the por- 
 ter that I should come and take away all that the land- 
 lord did not keep, and after that we came back here. 
 The young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried 
 in her hand the small bundle, which contained all they 
 possessed in the world. I handed them their three hun- 
 dred and fifteen francs, and then I never saw them again." 
 " But their name ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; the lady sold me the things in the 
 presence of the porter, and so I had no occasion to ask 
 her name, for what she sold belonged to her." 
 
 ." But their new address?" 
 
 " I don't know that either." 
 
 " No doubt they know at their old lodging ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; for, when I went back to get the things, 
 the porter told me, speaking of the mother and daughter, 
 ' that they were very quiet people, very respectable, and 
 very unfortunate, — I hope no misfortune has happened 
 to them ! They appeared to be very calm and composed, 
 but I am sure they were quite in despair.' ' And where 
 are they gone now to lodge ? ' I asked. 1 Ma foi, I don't 
 know ! ' was the answer ; ' they left without telling me, 
 and I am sure they will not return here.' " 
 
 The hopes which Rodolph had entertained for a 
 moment vanished ; how could he go to work to dis- 
 cover these two unfortunate females, when all the trace 
 he had of them was that the young daughter's name was 
 Claire, and the fragment of a letter, of which we have 
 already made mention, and at the bottom of which were 
 these words : 
 
 " To write to Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy?" 
 43 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 The only, and very remote chance of discovering the 
 traces of these unfortunates was through Madame de 
 Lucenay, who, fortunately, was on intimate terms with 
 Madame d'Harville. 
 
 " Here, ma'am, be so good as to take your money," 
 said Rodolph to the shopkeeper, handing her a note for 
 five hundred francs. 
 
 " I will give you the change, sir. What is your 
 address ? " 
 
 " Rue du Temple, No. 17." 
 
 " Rue du Temple, No. 17 ; oh, very well, very well, I 
 know it." 
 
 " Have you ever been to that house ? " 
 
 " Often. First I bought the furniture of a woman 
 there, who lent money on wages ; it is not a very cred- 
 itable business, to be sure, but that's no affair of mine, — 
 she sells, I buy, and so that's settled. Another time, not 
 six weeks ago, I went there again for the furniture of a 
 young man, who lived on the fourth floor, and was 
 moving away." 
 
 " M. Francois Germain, perhaps ? " said Rodolph. 
 
 " Just so. Did you know him ? " 
 
 " Very well ; and, unfortunately, he has not left his 
 present address in the Rue du Temple, so I do not know 
 where to find him. But where shall we find a cart to 
 take the goods ? " 
 
 "As it is not far, a large truck will do, and old 
 Jdrome is close by, my regular commissionaire. If you 
 wish to know the address of M. Francois Germain, I 
 can help you." 
 
 " What ? Do you know where he lives ? " 
 
 " Not exactly, but I know where you may be sure to 
 meet with him." 
 
 "Where ?" 
 
 " At the notary's where he works." 
 " At a notary's ? " 
 
 " Yes, who lives in the Rue du Sentier." 
 
 44 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 " M. Jacques Ferrand ? " exclaimed Rodolph. 
 
 " Yes ; and a very worthy man he is. There is a 
 crucifix and some holy boxwood in his study ; it looks 
 just as if one was in a sacristy." 
 
 " But how did you know that M. Germain worked at 
 this notary's ? " 
 
 " Why, this way : this young man came to me to ask 
 me to buy his little lot of furniture all of a lump. So 
 that time, too, though rather out of my line, I bought all 
 his kit, and brought it here, because he seemed a nice 
 young fellow, and I had a pleasure in obliging him. 
 "Well, I bought him right clean out, and I paid him well ; 
 he was, no doubt, very well satisfied, for, a fortnight 
 afterwards, he came again, to buy some bed furniture 
 from me. A commissionaire, with a truck, went with 
 him, everything was packed : well, but, at the moment 
 he was going to pay me, lo and behold ! he had forgotten 
 his purse ; but he looked so like an honest man that I 
 said to him, 4 Take the things with you, — never mind, 
 I shall be passing your way, and will call for the money.' 
 6 Very good,' says he ; ' but I am never at home, so 
 call to-morrow in the Rue du Sentier, at M. Jacques 
 Ferrand's, the notary, where I am employed, and I will 
 pay you.' I went next day, and he paid me ; only, what 
 was very odd to me was that he sold his things, and 
 then, a fortnight afterwards, he buys others." 
 
 Rodolph thought that he was able to account for this 
 singular fact. Germain was desirous of destroying every 
 trace from the wretches who were pursuing him : fearing, 
 no doubt, that his removal might put them on the scent of 
 his fresh abode, he had preferred, in order to avoid this 
 danger, selling his goods, and afterwards buying others. 
 
 The prince was overjoyed to think of the happiness in 
 store for Madame Georges, who would thus, at length, 
 see again that son so long and vainly sought. 
 
 Rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling 
 lips. 
 
 45 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Well, did not I tell you so ? " she exclaimed. " I am 
 not deceived : we shall have spent six hundred and forty 
 francs all together, and the Morels will be set up like 
 princes. Here come the shopkeepers ; are they not 
 loaded ? Nothing will now be wanting for the family ; 
 they will have everything requisite, even to a gridiron, 
 two newly tinned saucepans, and a coffee-pot. I said to 
 myself, since they- are to have things done so grandly, 
 let them be grand ; and, with all that, I shall not have 
 lost more than three hours. But come, neighbour, pay 
 as quickly as you can, and let us be gone. It will soon 
 be noon, and my needle must go at a famous rate to 
 make up for this morning." 
 
 Rodolph paid, and quitted the Temple with Rigolette. 
 
 At the moment when the grisette and her companion 
 were entering the passage, they were almost knocked 
 over by Madame Pipelet, who was running out, fright- 
 ened, troubled, and aghast. 
 
 " Mercy on us ! " said Rigolette, " what ails you, 
 Madame Pipelet ? Where are you running to in that 
 manner ? " 
 
 " Is it you, Mile. Rigolette ? " exclaimed Anastasie ; 
 " it is Providence that sends you ; help me to save 
 the life of Alfred." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " The darling old duck has fainted. Have mercy 
 on us ! Run for me, and get me two sous' worth of 
 absinthe at the dram-shop, — the strongest, mind ; it is 
 his remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus, — that 
 generally sets him up again. Be kind, and do not refuse 
 me, I can then return to Alfred ; I am all over in such 
 a fluster." 
 
 Rigolette let go Rodolph's arm, and ran quickly to 
 the dram-shop. 
 
 " But what has happened, Madame Pipelet ? " inquired 
 Rodolph, following the porteress into the lodge. 
 
 " How can I tell, my worthy sir ? I had gone out to 
 46 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop, to save Alfred 
 so much trotting about ; I returned, and what should I 
 see but the dear old cosset with his legs and arms all in 
 the air ! There, M. Rodolph," said Anastasie, opening 
 the door of her dog-hole, " say if that is not enough to 
 break one's heart ! " 
 
 Lamentable spectacle ! With his bell-crowned hat 
 still on his head, even further on than usual, for the 
 ambiguous castor, pushed down, no doubt, by violence, 
 to judge by a transverse gap, covered M. Pipelet's eyes, 
 who was on his back on the ground at the foot of his 
 bed. The fainting was over, and Alfred was beginning 
 to make some slight gesticulations with his hands, as 
 if he sought to repulse somebody or something, and 
 then he tried to push off this troublesome visor, with 
 which he had been bonneted. 
 
 " He kicks, — that's a beautiful symptom ! He comes 
 to ! " exclaimed the porteress, who, stooping down, 
 bawled in his ears, " What's the matter with my Alfred ? 
 It's his 'Stasie who is with him. How goes it now ? 
 There's some absinthe coming, that will set you up." 
 Then, assuming a falsetto voice of much endearment, 
 she added : " What, did they abuse and assassinate him, 
 — the dear old darling, the delight of his 'Stasie, eh ?" 
 
 Alfred heaved an immense sigh, and, with a mighty 
 groan, uttered the fatal word : 
 
 " Cabrion ! " 
 
 And his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of 
 repulsing the fearful vision. 
 
 " Cabrion ! What, that cussed painter again ? " ex- 
 claimed Madame Pipelet. " Alfred dreamed of him 
 all night long, so that he kicked me almost to death. 
 This monster is his nightmare ; not. only does he 
 poison his days, but he poisons his nights also, — he 
 pursues him in his very sleep ; yes, sir, as though 
 Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom may 
 Heaven confound ! was his unceasing remorse." 
 
 47 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak 
 of Rigolette's former neighbour. 
 
 " Alfred ! answer me ; don't remain mute, you frighten 
 me," said Madame Pipelet ; " let's try and get you up. 
 Why, lovey, do you keep thinking of that vagabond fel- 
 low ? You know that, when you think of that fellow, it 
 has the same effect on you that cabbage has, — it fills up 
 your pylorus and stifles you." 
 
 " Cabrion ! " repeated M. Pipelet, pushing up, with an 
 effort, the hat which had fallen so low over his eyes, 
 which he rolled around him with an affrighted air, 
 
 Rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe. 
 
 " Thankee, ma'amselle, you are so kind ! " said the old 
 body ; and then she added, " Come, deary, suck this 
 down, that will make you all right." 
 
 And Anastasie, presenting the phial quickly to M. 
 Pipelet's lips, contrived to make him swallow the ab- 
 sinthe. In vain did Alfred struggle vigorously. His 
 wife, taking advantage of the victim's weakness, held up 
 his head firmly with one hand, whilst with the other she 
 introduced the neck of the little bottle between his 
 teeth, and compelled him to swallow the absinthe, after 
 which she exclaimed, triumphantly : 
 
 " Ther-r-r-r-e, now-w-w ! you're on your pins again, 
 my ducky ! " 
 
 And Alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of 
 his hand, opened his eyes, rose, and inquired, in accents 
 of alarm : 
 
 " Have you seen him ? " 
 
 « Who ? " 
 
 " Is he gone ? " 
 
 "Who, Alfred?" 
 
 " Cabrion ! " 
 
 " Has he dared — " asked the porteress. 
 
 M. Pipelet, as mute as the statue of the commandant, 
 like that redoubtable spectre, bowed his head twice with 
 an affirmative air. 
 
 48 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 " What ! has M. Cabrion been here ? " inquired Rigo- 
 lette, repressing a violent desire to laugh. 
 
 " What ! has the monster been unchained on Alfred ? " 
 said Madame Pipelet. " Oh, if I had been there with 
 my broom, he should have swallowed it, handle and all ! 
 But tell us, Alfred, all about this horrid affair." 
 
 M. Pipelet made signs with his hand that he was about 
 to speak, and they listened to the man with the bell- 
 crowned hat in religious silence, whilst he expressed 
 himself in these terms, and in a voice of deep emotion : 
 
 " My wife had left me, to save me the trouble of going 
 out, according to the request of monsieur," bowing to 
 Rodolph, " to the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop." 
 
 " The dear old darling had had the nightmare all 
 night, and I wished to save him the journey," said 
 Anastasie. 
 
 " This nightmare was sent me as a warning from 
 on high," responded the porter, religiously. "I had 
 dreamed of Cabrion, and I was to suffer from Cabrion. 
 Here was I sitting quietly in front of my table, reflecting 
 on an alteration which I wished to make in the upper 
 leather of this boot confided to my hands, when I heard 
 a noise, a rustling, at the window of my lodge, — was 
 it a presentiment, a warning from on high ? My heart 
 beat, I lifted up my head, and, through the pane of glass, 
 I saw — I saw — " 
 
 " Cabrion ! " exclaimed Anastasie, clasping her hands. 
 
 " Cabrion ! " replied M. Pipelet, gloomily. " His hide- 
 ous face was there, pressed close against the window, 
 and he was looking at me with eyes like a cat's — what 
 do I say ? — a tiger's ! just as in my dream. I tried to 
 speak, but my tongue clave to my mouth ; I tried to rise, 
 I was nailed to my seat. My boot fell from my hands, 
 and, as in all the critical and important events of my 
 life, I remained perfectly motionless. Then the key 
 turned in the lock, the door opened, — Cabrion entered ! " 
 
 " He entered ? Owdacious monster ! " replied Madame 
 49 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Pipelet, as much astonished as her spouse at such 
 audacity. 
 
 " He entered slowly," resumed Alfred, " stopped a 
 moment at the threshold, as if to fascinate me with his 
 look, atrocious as it was, then he advanced towards 
 me, pausing at each step, and piercing me through with 
 his eye, but not uttering a word, — straight, mute, and 
 threatening as a phantom ! " 
 
 " I declare, my very heart aches to hear him," said 
 Anastasie. 
 
 " I remained still more motionless, and glued to my 
 chair ; Cabrion still advanced slowly towards me, fixing 
 his eye as the serpent glares at the bird ; he so frightened 
 me that, in spite of myself, I kept my eye on him ; he 
 came close to me, and then I could no longer endure his 
 revolting aspect, it was too much, and I could not. I 
 shut my eyes, and then I felt that he dared to place his 
 hands upon my hat, which he took by the crown and 
 lifted gently off my head, leaving it bare. I began to be 
 seized with vertigo, my breathing was suspended, there 
 was a singing in my ears, and I was completely fastened 
 to my seat, and I closed my eyes still closer and closer. 
 Then Cabrion stooped, took my head between his hands, 
 which were as cold as death, and on my forehead, covered 
 with an icy damp, he deposited a brazen kiss, indecent 
 wretch ! " 
 
 Anastasie lifted her hands towards heaven. 
 
 " My enemy, the most deadly, imprinted a kiss on my 
 forehead ; such a monstrosity overcame and paralysed 
 me. Cabrion profited by my stupor to place my hat on 
 my head, and then, with a blow of his fist, drove it down 
 over my eyes, as you saw. This last outrage destroyed 
 me ; the measure was full, all about me was turning 
 around, and I fainted at the moment when I saw him, 
 from under the rim of my hat, leave the lodge as quietly 
 and slowly as he had entered." 
 
 Then, as if the recital had exhausted all his strength, 
 
THE TEMPLE. 
 
 M. Pipelet fell back in his chair, raising his hands to 
 heaven in a manner of mute imprecation. Rigolette 
 went out quickly ; she could not restrain herself any 
 longer ; her desire to laugh almost stifled her. Rodolph 
 had the greatest difficulty to keep his countenance. 
 
 Suddenly there was a confused murmur, such as 
 announces the arrival of a mob, heard from the street, 
 and a great noise came from the door at the top of the 
 entrance, and then butts of grounded muskets were heard 
 on the steps of the door. 
 
 51 
 
t 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE AEBEST. 
 
 " Good gracious ! M. Rodolph," exclaimed Rigolette, 
 running in, pale and trembling, « a commissary of police 
 and the guard have come here." 
 
 " Divine justice watches over me," said M. Pipelet, in 
 a transport of pious gratitude. " They have come to 
 arrest Cabrion ; unfortunately it is too late." 
 
 A commissary of police, wearing his tricoloured scarf 
 around his waist underneath his black coat, entered the 
 lodge. His countenance was impressive, magisterial, and 
 serious. 
 
 " M. le Commissaire is too late ; the malefactor has 
 escaped," said M. Pipelet, in a sorrowful voice; "but I 
 will give you his description, — villainous smile, impu- 
 dent look, insulting — " 
 
 " Of whom do you speak ? " inquired the magistrate. 
 
 " Of Cabrion, M. le Commissaire ; but, perhaps, if you 
 make all haste, it is not yet too late to catch him," added 
 M. Pipelet. 
 
 " I know nothing about any Cabrion," said the magis- 
 trate, impatiently. "Does one Jerome Morel, a working 
 lapidary, live in this house ? " 
 
 " Yes, mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet, put- 
 ting herself into a military attitude. 
 
 " Conduct me to his apartment." 
 
 " Morel, the lapidary ! " said the porteress, excessively 
 surprised ; " why, he is the mildest lambkin in the world. 
 He is incapable of — " 
 
 52 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 " Does J e*rome Morel live here or not ? " 
 " He lives here, sir, with his family, in one of the 
 attics." 
 
 " Lead me to his attic." 
 
 Then, addressing himself to a man who accompanied 
 him, the magistrate said : 
 
 " Let two of the municipal guard wait below, and not 
 leave the entrance. Send Justing for a hackney-coach." 
 
 The man left the lodge to put these orders in exe- 
 cution. 
 
 " Now," continued the magistrate, addressing himself 
 to M. Pipelet, " lead me to Morel." 
 
 " If it is all the same to you, mon commissaire, I will 
 do that for Alfred; he is indisposed from Cabrion's 
 behaviour, which, just as the cabbage does, troubles his 
 pylorus." 
 
 "You or your husband, it is no matter which. Go 
 forward." 
 
 And, preceded by Madame Pipelet, he ascended the 
 staircase, but soon stopped when he saw Rodolph and 
 Rigolette following him. 
 
 " Who are you, and what do you want ? " he inquired. 
 
 "They are two lodgers in the fourth story," said 
 Madame Pipelet. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know that you 
 belonged to the house," said he to Rodolph. 
 
 The latter, auguring well from the polite behaviour of 
 the magistrate, said to him : 
 
 " You are going to see a family in a state of deep 
 misery, sir. I do not know what fresh stroke of ill for- 
 tune threatens this unhappy artisan, but he has been 
 cruelly tried last night, — one of his daughters, worn 
 down by illness, is dead before his eyes, — dead from 
 cold and misery." 
 
 " Is it possible ? " 
 
 "It is, indeed, the fact, mon commissaire," said 
 Madame Pipelet. " But for this gentleman who speaks 
 53 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 to you, and who is a king of lodgers, for lie has saved 
 poor Morel from prison by his generosity, the whole 
 family of the lapidary must have died of hunger." 
 
 The commissary looked at Rodolph with equal sur- 
 prise and interest. 
 
 " Nothing is more easily explained, sir," said Rodolph. 
 " A person who is very charitable, learning that Morel, 
 whose honour and honesty I will guarantee to you, was 
 in a most deplorable and unmerited state of distress, 
 authorised me to pay a bill of exchange for which the 
 bailiffs were about to drag off to prison this poor work- 
 man, the sole support of his numerous family." 
 
 The magistrate, in his turn, struck by the noble 
 physiognomy of Rodolph, as well as the dignity of his 
 manners, replied : 
 
 " I have no doubt of Morel's probity. I only regret I 
 have to fulfil a painful duty in your presence, sir, who 
 have so deeply interested yourself in this family." 
 
 " What do you mean, sir ? " 
 
 " From the services you have rendered to the Morels, 
 and your language, I see, sir, that you are a worthy per- 
 son. Having, besides, no reason for concealing the object 
 of the warrant which I have to execute, I will confess 
 to you that I am about to apprehend Louise Morel, the 
 lapidary's daughter." 
 
 The recollection of the rouleau of gold, offered to the 
 bailiffs by the young girl, occurred to Rodolph. 
 
 " Of what is she then accused ? " 
 
 " She lies under a charge of child-murder." 
 
 « She ! she ! Oh, her poor father ! " 
 
 "From what you have told me, sir, I imagine that, 
 under the miserable circumstances in which this artisan 
 is, this fresh blow will be terrible for him. Unfortu- 
 nately, I must carry out the full instructions with which 
 I am charged." 
 
 "But it is at present only an accusation?" asked 
 Rodolph. "Proofs, no doubt, are still wanting?" 
 54 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 " I cannot tell you more on that point. Justice has 
 been informed of this crime, or rather the presumptive 
 crime, by the statement of an individual most respecta- 
 ble in every particular, Louise Morel's master." 
 
 " Jacques Ferrand, the notary ? " said Rodolph, with 
 indignation. 
 
 "Yes, sir — " 
 
 " M. Jacques Ferrand is a wretch, sir ! " 
 
 " I am pained to see that you do not know the person 
 of whom you speak, sir. M. Jacques Ferrand is one of 
 the most honourable men in the world ; his rectitude is 
 universally recognised." 
 
 " I repeat to you, sir, that this notary is a wretch. It 
 was he who sought to send Morel to prison because his 
 daughter repulsed his libidinous proposals. If Louise is 
 only accused on the denunciation of such a man, you 
 must own, sir, that the charge deserves but very little 
 credit." 
 
 " It is not my affair, sir, and I am very glad of it, to 
 discuss the depositions of M. Ferrand," said the magis- 
 trate, coldly. " Justice is informed in this matter, and 
 it is for a court of law to decide. As for me, I have 
 a warrant to apprehend Louise Morel, and that warrant 
 I must put into execution." 
 
 " You are quite right, sir, and I regret that an impulse 
 of feeling, however just, should have made me forget for 
 a moment that this was neither the time nor the place 
 for such a discussion. One word only : the corpse of 
 the child which Morel has lost is still in the attic, and I 
 have offered my apartments to the family to spare them 
 the sad spectacle of the dead body. You will, therefore, 
 find the lapidary, and possibly his daughter, in my rooms. 
 I entreat you, sir, in the name of humanity, do not appre- 
 hend Louise abruptly in the midst of the unhappy family 
 only a short time since snatched from their state of utter 
 wretchedness. Morel has had so many shocks during 
 this night that it is really to be feared his reason may 
 55 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 sink under it; already his wife is dangerously ill, and 
 such a blow would kill him." 
 
 " Sir, I have always executed my orders with 
 every possible consideration, and I shall act similarly 
 now." 
 
 " Will you allow me, sir, to ask you one favour ? It 
 is this : the young female who is following us occupies 
 an apartment close to mine, which, I have no doubt, she 
 would place at your disposal. You could, in the first 
 instance, send for Louise, and, if necessary, for Morel 
 afterwards, that his daughter may take leave of him. 
 You will thus save a poor sick and infirm mother from 
 a very distressing scene." 
 
 " Most willingly, sir, if it can be so arranged." 
 
 The conversation we have just described was carried 
 on in an undertone, whilst Rigolette and Madame Pipe- 
 let kept away discreetly a few steps' distance from the 
 commissary and Rodolph. The latter then went to 
 the grisette, whom the presence of the commissary had 
 greatly affrighted, and said to her : 
 
 " My good little neighbour, I want another service 
 from you, — I want you to leave your room at my 
 disposal for the next hour." 
 
 " As long as you please, M. Rodolph. You have the 
 key. But, oh, say what is the matter ? " 
 
 " I will tell you all by and by. But I want something 
 more ; you must return to the Temple, and tell them not 
 to bring our purchases here for the next hour." 
 
 " To be sure I will, M. Rodolph ; but has any fresh 
 misfortune befallen the Morels ? " 
 
 " Alas ! yes, something very sad indeed, which you 
 will learn but too soon." 
 
 " Well, then, neighbour, I will run to the Temple. 
 Alas, alas ! I was thinking that, thanks to your kind- 
 ness, these poor people had been quite relieved from 
 their trouble!" said the grisette, who then descended 
 the staircase very quickly. 
 
 56 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 Rodolph had been very desirous of sparing Rigolette 
 the distressing scene of Louise Morel's arrest. 
 
 " Mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet, " since my 
 king of lodgers will direct you, I may return to my 
 Alfred. I am uneasy about him, for when I left him 
 he had hardly recovered from his indisposition which 
 Cabrion had caused." 
 
 " Go, go," said the magistrate, who was thus left 
 alone with Rodolph. 
 
 They both ascended to the landing-place on the fourth 
 story, at the door of the chamber in which the lapidary 
 and his family had been temporarily established. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened. Louise, pale and in tears, 
 came out quickly. 
 
 " Adieu, adieu, father ! " she exclaimed. " I will come 
 back again, but I must go now." 
 
 "Louise, my child, listen to me a moment," said 
 Morel, following his daughter, and endeavouring to 
 detain her. 
 
 At the sight of Rodolph and the magistrate, Louise 
 and the lapidary remained motionless. 
 
 " Ah, sir, you, our kind benefactor ! " said the artisan, 
 recognising Rodolph, " assist me in preventing Louise 
 from leaving us. I do not know what is the matter 
 with her, but she quite frightens me, she is so deter- 
 mined to go. Now there is no occasion for her to return 
 to her master, is there, sir ? Did you not say to me, 
 4 Louise shall not again leave you, and that will recom- 
 pense you for much that you have suffered ? ' Ah ! at 
 that kind promise, I confess that for a moment I had 
 forgot the death of my poor little Adesle ; but I must not 
 again be separated from thee, Louise, oh, never, never ! " 
 
 Rodolph was wounded to the heart, and was unable to 
 utter a word in reply. 
 
 The commissary said sternly to Louise : 
 
 " Is your name Louise Morel ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied the young girl, quite overcome. 
 57 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 "You are Je*rome Morel, her father?" added the 
 magistrate, addressing the lapidary. 
 
 Rodolph had opened the door of Rigolette's apartment. 
 
 " Yes ? sir; but—" 
 
 " Go in there with your daughter." 
 
 And the magistrate pointed to Rigolette's chamber, 
 into which Rodolph had already entered. 
 
 Reassured by his preserver, the lapidary and Louise, 
 astonished and uneasy, did as the commissary desired 
 them. 
 
 The commissary shut the door, and said with much 
 feeling to Morel : 
 
 " I know that you are honest and unfortunate, and it 
 is, therefore, with regret that I tell you that I am here 
 in the name of the law to apprehend your daughter." 
 
 "All is discovered, — I am lost!" cried Louise, in 
 agony, and throwing herself into her father's arms. 
 
 " What do you say ? What do you say ? " inquired 
 Morel, stupefied. " You are mad ! What do you mean 
 by lost ? Apprehend you ! Why apprehend you ? Who 
 has come to apprehend you ?" 
 
 "I, and in the name of the law;" and the commis- 
 sary showed his scarf. 
 
 " Oh, wretched, wretched girl ! " exclaimed Louise, 
 falling on her knees. 
 
 " What ! in the name of the law ? " said the artisan, 
 whose reason, severely shaken by this fresh blow, began 
 to totter. " Why apprehend my daughter in the name 
 of the law ? I will answer for Louise, I will, — this my 
 child, my good child, ain't you, Louise ? What ! appre- 
 hend you, when our good angel has restored you to us to 
 console us for the death of our poor, dear little AdSle ? 
 Come, come, this can't be. And then, to speak respect- 
 fully, M. le Commissaire, they apprehend none but the 
 bad, you know ; and my Louise is not bad. So you see, 
 my dear, the good gentleman is mistaken. My name 
 is Morel, but there are other Morels ; you are Louise, but 
 58 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 there are other Louises ; so you see, M. le Commissaire, 
 there is a mistake, certainly some mistake ! " 
 
 " Unhappily there is no mistake. Louise Morel, take 
 leave of your father ! " 
 
 " What ! are you going to take my daughter away ? " 
 exclaimed the workman, furious with grief, and advanc- 
 ing towards the magistrate with a menacing air. 
 
 Rodolph seized the lapidary by the arm, and said to 
 him : 
 
 " Be calm, and hope for the best ; your daughter will 
 be restored to you ; her innocence must be proved ; she 
 cannot be guilty." 
 
 " Guilty of what ? She is not guilty of anything. I 
 will put my hand in the fire if — " Then, remembering 
 the gold which Louise had brought to pay the bill with, 
 Morel cried, " But the money — that money you had this 
 morning, Louise ! " And he gave his daughter a terrible 
 look. 
 
 Louise understood it. 
 
 " I rob ! " she exclaimed ; and her cheeks suffused 
 with generous indignation, her tone and gesture, reas- 
 sured her father. 
 
 " I knew it well enough ! " he exclaimed. " You see, 
 M. le Commissaire, she denies it ; and I swear to you, 
 that she never told me a lie in her life ; and every- 
 body that knows her will say the same thing as I do. 
 She lie ! Oh, no, she is too proud to do that ! And, then, 
 the bill has been paid by our benefactor. The gold she 
 does not wish to keep, but will return it to the person 
 who lent it to her, desiring him not to tell any one ; 
 won't you, Louise ? " 
 
 " Your daughter is not accused of theft," said the 
 magistrate. 
 
 " Well, then, what is the charge against her ? I, her 
 father, swear to you that she is innocent of whatever 
 crime they may accuse her of, and I never told a lie in 
 my life either." 
 
 59 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 « Why should you know what she is charged with ? " 
 said Rodolph, moved by his distress. " Louise's inno- 
 cence will be proved ; the person who takes so great an 
 interest in you will protect your daughter. Come, come ! 
 Courage, courage ! This time Providence will not forsake 
 you. Embrace your daughter, and you will soon see her 
 again." 
 
 " M. le Commissaire," cried Morel, not attending to 
 Rodolph, " you are going to deprive a father of his 
 daughter without even naming the crime of which she 
 is accused ! Let me know all ! Louise, why don't you 
 speak ? " 
 
 " Your daughter is accused of child-murder," said the 
 magistrate. 
 
 "I — I — I — child-mur — I don't — you — " 
 
 And Morel, aghast, stammered incoherently. 
 
 " Your daughter is accused of having killed her child," 
 said the commissary, deeply touched at this scene ; " but 
 it is not yet proved that she has committed this crime." 
 
 " Oh, no, I have not, sir ! I have not ! " exclaimed 
 Louise, energetically, and rising ; " I swear to you that 
 it was dead. It never breathed, — it was cold. I lost 
 my senses, — this is my crime. But kill my child ! Oh, 
 never, never ! " 
 
 " Your child, abandoned girl ! " cried Morel, raising 
 his hands towards Louise, as if he would annihilate her 
 by this gesture and imprecation. 
 
 " Pardon, father, pardon ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 After a moment's fearful silence, Morel resumed, with 
 a calm that was even more frightful : 
 
 " M. le Commissaire, take away that creature ; she is 
 not my child ! " 
 
 The lapidary turned to leave the room ; but Louise 
 threw herself at his knees, around which she clung with 
 both arms ; and, with her head thrown back, distracted 
 and supplicating, she exclaimed : 
 
 " Father, hear me ! Only hear me ! " 
 
 00 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 " M. le Commissaire, away with her, I beseech you ! I 
 leave her to you," said the lapidary, struggling to free 
 himself from Louise's embrace. 
 
 " Listen to her," said Rodolph, holding him ; " do not 
 be so pitiless." 
 
 " To her ! To her ! " repeated Morel, lifting his two 
 hands to his forehead, "to a dishonoured wretch! A 
 wanton ! Oh, a wanton ! " 
 
 " But, if she were dishonoured through her efforts to 
 save you ? " said Rodolph to him in a low voice. 
 
 These words made a sudden and painful impression 
 on Morel, and he cast his eyes on his weeping child still 
 on her knees before him ; then, with a searching look, 
 impossible to describe, he cried in a hollow voice, 
 clenching his teeth with rage : 
 
 "The notary?" 
 
 An answer came to Louise's lips. She was about to 
 speak, but paused, — no doubt a reflection, — and, bend- 
 ing down her head, remained silent. 
 
 " No, no ; he sought to imprison me this morning ! " 
 continued Morel, with a violent burst. " Can it be he ? 
 Ah, so much the better, so much the better ! She has 
 not even an excuse for her crime ; she never thought 
 of me in her dishonour, and I may curse her without 
 remorse." 
 
 " No, no; do not curse me, my father ! I will tell you 
 all, — to you alone, and you will see — you will see 
 whether or not I deserve your forgiveness." 
 
 " For pity's sake, hear her ! " said Rodolph to him. 
 
 " What will she tell me, — her infamy ? That will 
 soon be public, and I can wait till then." 
 
 " Sir," said Louise, addressing the magistrate, " for 
 pity's sake, leave me alone with my father, that I may 
 say a few words to him before I leave him, perhaps for 
 ever ; and before you, also, our benefactor, I will speak ; 
 but only before you and my father." 
 
 " Be it so," said the magistrate. 
 
 61 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 " Will you be pitiless, and refuse this last consolation 
 to your child ? " asked Rodolph of Morel. " If you think 
 you owe me any gratitude for the kindness which I have 
 been enabled to show you, consent to your daughter's 
 entreaties." 
 
 After a moment's sad and angry silence, Morel 
 replied : 
 " I will." 
 
 " But where shall we go ! " inquired Rodolph ; " your 
 family are in the other room." 
 
 " Where shall we go," exclaimed the lapidary, with a 
 bitter irony, " where shall we go ? Up above, — up above, 
 into the garret, by the side of the body of my dead 
 daughter; that spot will well suit a confession, will it 
 not ? Come along, come, and we will see if Louise will 
 dare to tell a lie in the presence of her sister's corpse. 
 Come ! Come along ! " 
 
 And Morel went out hastily with a wild air, and 
 turning his face from Louise. 
 
 " Sir," said the commissary to Rodolph, in an under- 
 tone, " I beg you for this poor man's sake not to protract 
 this conversation. You were right when you said his 
 reason was touched ; just now his look was that of a 
 madman." 
 
 " Alas, sir, I am equally fearful with yourself of some 
 fresh and terrible disaster ! I will abridge as much as 
 I can this most painful farewell." 
 
 And Rodolph rejoined the lapidary and his daughter. 
 
 However strange and painful Morel's determination 
 might appear, it was really the only thing that, under 
 the circumstances, could be done. The magistrate 
 consented to await the issue of this conversation in 
 Rigolette's chamber ; the Morel family were occupying 
 Rodolph's apartment, and there was only the garret at 
 liberty ; and it was into this horrid retreat that Louise, 
 her father, and Rodolph betook themselves. Sad and 
 affecting sight ! 
 
 62 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 In the middle of the attic which we have already 
 described, there lay, stretched on the idiot's mattress, 
 the body of the little girl who had died in the morning, 
 now covered by a ragged cloth. The unusual and clear 
 light, reflected through the narrow skylight, threw the 
 figures of the three actors in this scene into bold relief. 
 Rodolph, standing iip, was leaning with his back against 
 the wall, deeply moved. Morel, seated at the edge of 
 his working-bench, with his head bent, his hands hanging 
 listless by his sides, whilst his gaze, fixed and fierce, 
 rested on, and did not quit, the mattress on which the 
 remains of his poor little Ad£le were deposited. At this 
 spectacle, the anger and indignation of the lapidary sub- 
 sided, and were changed to inexpressible bitterness ; his 
 energy left him, and he was utterly prostrated beneath 
 this fresh blow. Louise, who was ghastly pale, felt her 
 strength forsake her. The revelation she was about to 
 make terrified her. Still she ventured, tremblingly, to 
 take her father's hand, — that miserable and shrivelled 
 hand, withered and wasted by excess of toil. The lapi- 
 dary did not withdraw it, and then his daughter, sobbing 
 as if her heart would burst, covered it with kisses, and 
 felt it slightly pressed against her lips. Morel's wrath 
 had ended, and then his tears, long repressed, flowed 
 freely and bitterly. 
 
 " Oh, father, if you only knew ! " exclaimed Louise ; 
 " if you only knew how much I am to be pitied ! " 
 
 " Oh, Louise, this, this will be the heaviest bitter in 
 my cup for the rest of my life, — all my life long," 
 replied the lapidary, weeping terribly. " You, you in 
 prison, — in the same bench with criminals ; you so 
 proud when you had a right to be proud ! No," he 
 resumed in a fresh burst of grief and despair, " no ; I 
 would rather have seen you in your shroud beside your 
 poor little sister ! " 
 
 " And I, I would sooner be there ! " replied Louise. 
 
 " Be silent, unhappy girl, you pain me. I was wrong 
 63 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 to say so ; I have been too harsh. Come, speak ; but in 
 the name of Heaven, do not lie. However frightful the 
 truth may be, yet tell it me all ; let me learn it from 
 your lips, and it will be less cruel. Speak, for, alas! 
 our moments are counted, they are waiting for you down 
 below. Ah, just Heaven, what a sad, sad parting ! " 
 
 " My father, I will tell you all, — everything," replied 
 Louise, taking courage ; " but promise me — and our kind 
 benefactor must promise me also — not to repeat this to 
 any person, — to any person. If he knew that I had 
 told ! — oh," and she shuddered as she spoke, " you 
 would be destroyed, destroyed as I am ; for you know 
 not the power and ferocity of this man." 
 
 « What man?" 
 
 " My master ! " 
 
 « The notary ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Louise in a whisper, and looking around 
 her as if she feared to be overheard. 
 
 " Take courage," said Rodolph ; " no matter how cruel 
 and powerful this man may be, we will defeat him ! 
 Besides, if I reveal what you are about to tell us, it 
 would only be in the interest of yourself or your father." 
 
 "And me too, Louise, if I speak, it would be in 
 endeavouring to save you. But what has this villain 
 done?" 
 
 " This is not all," said Louise, after a moment's 
 reflection ; " in this recital there will be a person 
 implicated who has rendered me a great service, who 
 has shown the utmost kindness to my father and family ; 
 this person was in the employ of M. Ferrand when I 
 entered his service, and he made me take an oath not to 
 disclose his name." 
 
 Rodolph, believing that she referred to Germain, said 
 to Louise : 
 
 " If you mean Frangois Germain, make your mind 
 tranquil, his secret shall be kept by your father and 
 myself." 
 
 64 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 Louise looked at Rodolph with surprise. 
 
 " Do you know him ? " said she. 
 
 " What ! was the good, excellent young man, who 
 lived here for three months, employed at the notary's 
 when you went to his service ? " said Morel. " The first 
 time you met him here, you appeared as if you had 
 never seen him before." 
 
 " It was agreed between us, father ; he had serious 
 reasons why he lid not wish it known that he was 
 working at M. errand's. It was I who told him of 
 the room to let on the fourth story here, knowing that 
 he would be a good neighbour for you." 
 
 " But," inquired Rodolph, " who, then, placed your 
 daughter at the notary's ? " 
 
 " During the illness of my wife, I said to Madame 
 Burette — the woman who advanced money on pledges, 
 who lived in this house — that Louise wished to get into 
 service in order to assist us. Madame Burette knew the 
 notary's housekeeper, and gave me a letter to her, in 
 which she recommended Louise as a very good girl. 
 Cursed letter ! it was the cause of all our misfortune. 
 This was the way, sir, that my daughter got into the 
 notary's service." 
 
 " Although I know some of the causes which excited 
 M. Ferrand's hatred against your father," said Rodolph 
 to Louise, " I beg you to tell me as shortly as possible 
 what passed between you and the notary after your 
 entering into his service ; it may, perhaps, be useful for 
 your defence." 
 
 " When I first went into M. Ferrand's house," said 
 Louise, " I had nothing to complain of with respect to 
 him. I had a great deal to do, and the housekeeper 
 often scolded me, and the house was very dull ; but I 
 endured everything very patiently. Service is service, 
 and, perhaps, elsewhere I should have other disagree- 
 ables. M. Ferrand was a very stern-looking person ; he 
 went to mass, and frequently had priests in his house. 
 65 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 I did not at all distrust him ; for at first he hardly ever 
 looked at me, spoke short and cross, especially when 
 there were any strangers. Except the porter who lived 
 at the entrance, in the same part of the house as the 
 office is in, I was the only servant, with Madame 
 SeYaphin, the housekeeper. The pavilion that we 
 occupied was isolated between the court and the gar- 
 den. My bedroom was high up. I was often afraid, 
 being, as I was, always alone, either in the kitchen, 
 which is underground, or in my bedroom. One day I 
 had worked very late mending some things that were 
 required in a hurry, and then I was going to bed, when 
 I heard footsteps moving quietly in the little passage at 
 the end of which my room was situated ; some one 
 stopped at my door. At first I supposed it was the 
 housekeeper ; but, as no one entered, I began to be 
 alarmed. I dared not move, but I listened ; however, 
 I heard no one ; yet I was sure that there was some one 
 behind my door. I asked twice who was there, but no 
 one answered ; I then pushed my chest of drawers against 
 the door, which had neither lock nor bolt. I still listened, 
 but nothing stirred ; so at the end of half an hour, which 
 seemed very long to me, I threw myself on my bed, and 
 the night passed quietly. The next morning I asked 
 the housekeeper's leave to have a bolt put on my door, 
 which had no fastening, telling her of my fright on the 
 previous night, and she told me I had been dreaming, 
 and that, if I wanted a bolt, I must ask M. Ferrand 
 for it. When I asked him, he shrugged up his shoulders, 
 and said I was crazy ; so I did not dare say any more 
 about it. Some time after this, the misfortune about 
 the diamond happened. My father in his despair did 
 not know what to do. I told Madame SeVaphin of his 
 distress, and she replied ; 4 Monsieur is so charitable, 
 perhaps he will do something for your father.' The 
 same afternoon, when I was waiting at table, M. Ferrand 
 said to me, suddenly, ' Your father is in want of thir- 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 teen hundred francs ; go and tell him to come to my 
 office this evening, and he shall have the money.' At 
 this mark of kindness I burst into tears, and did not 
 know how to thank him, when he said, with his usual 
 bluntness, ' Yery good, very good ; oh, what I do is 
 nothing ! ' The same evening, after my work, I came to 
 my father to tell him the good news ; the next day — " 
 " I had the thirteen hundred francs, giving him my 
 acceptance in blank at three months' date," said Morel. 
 " I did like Louise, and wept with gratitude, called this 
 man my benefactor. Oh, what a wretch must he be thus 
 to destroy the gratitude and veneration I entertained for 
 him!" 
 
 " This precaution of making you give him a blank 
 acceptance, at a date falling due so soon that you could not 
 meet it, must have raised your suspicion ? " said Rodolph. 
 
 " No, sir, I only thought the notary took it for security, 
 that was all ; besides, he told me that I need not think 
 about repaying this sum in less than two years ; but that, 
 every three months, the bill should be renewed for the 
 sake of greater regularity. It was, however, duly pre- 
 sented here on the day it became due, but, as you may 
 suppose, was not paid. The usual course of law was fol- 
 lowed up, and judgment was obtained against me in the 
 name of a third party. All this I was desired not to 
 feel any uneasiness respecting, as it had been caused by 
 an error on the part of the officer in whose hands the 
 bill had been placed." 
 
 " His motive is very evident," said Rodolph ; " he 
 wished to have you entirely in his power." 
 
 " Alas, sir, it was from the very day in which he 
 obtained judgment that he commenced ! But, go on, 
 Louise, go on. I scarcely know where I am. My head 
 seems giddy and bewildered, and at times my memory 
 entirely fails me. I fear my senses are leaving me, and 
 that I shall become mad. Oh, this is too much — too 
 hard to bear!" 
 
 67 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Rodolph having succeeded in tranquillising the lapi- 
 dary, Louise thus proceeded : 
 
 " With a view to prove my gratitude to M. Ferrand 
 for all his kindness towards my family, I redoubled my 
 endeavours to serve him well and faithfully. From that 
 time the housekeeper appeared to take an utter aversion 
 to me, and to embrace every opportunity of rendering 
 me uncomfortable, continually exposing me to anger 
 by withholding from me the various orders given by 
 M. Ferrand. All this made me extremely miserable, and 
 I would gladly have sought another place; but the 
 knowledge of my father's pecuniary obligation to my 
 master prevented my following my inclinations. 
 
 " The money had now been lent about three months, 
 and, though M. Ferrand still continued harsh and unkind 
 to me in the presence of Madame Se'raphin, he began 
 casting looks of a peculiar and embarrassing description 
 at me whenever he could do so unobserved, and would 
 smile and seem amused when he perceived the confusion 
 it occasioned me." 
 
 " Take notice, I beg, sir, that it was at this very time 
 the necessary legal proceedings, for enabling him at any 
 moment to deprive me of my liberty, were going on." 
 
 " One day," said Louise, in continuation, " the house- 
 keeper went out directly after Sinner, contrary to her 
 usual custom ; the clerks, none of whom lived in the 
 house, were dismissed from further duty for the day, 
 and retired to their respective homes ; the porter was 
 sent out on a message, leaving M. Ferrand and myself 
 alone in the house. I was doing some needlework 
 Madame Se'raphin had given me, and by her orders 
 was sitting in a small antechamber, from whence I 
 could hear if I was wanted. After some time the 
 bell of my master's bedroom rang ; I went there imme- 
 diately, and upon entering found him standing before 
 the fire. As I approached he turned around suddenly 
 and caught me in his arms. Alarm and surprise at first 
 68 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 deprived me of power to move ; but, spite of his great 
 strength, I at last struggled so successfully, that I 
 managed to free myself from his grasp, and, running 
 back with all speed to the room I had just quitted, I 
 hastily shut the door, and held it with all my force. 
 Unfortunately, the key was on the other side." 
 * " You hear, sir, — you hear," said Morel to Rodolph, 
 
 " the manner in which this generous benefactor behaved 
 to the daughter of the man he affected to serve ! " 
 
 "At the end of a few minutes," continued Louise, 
 "the door yielded to the efforts of M. Ferrand. For- 
 tunately, the lamp by which I had been working was 
 within my reach, and I precipitately extinguished it. 
 The antechamber was at some distance from his bed- 
 chamber, and we were, therefore, left in utter darkness. 
 At first he called me by name ; but, finding that I did 
 not reply, he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with rage 
 and passion, ' If you try to escape from me, your father 
 shall go to prison for the thirteen hundred francs he 
 owes, and is unable to pay.' I besought him to have 
 pity on me, promised to do all in my power to serve 
 him faithfully, and with gratitude for all his goodness 
 to my family, but declared that no consideration on 
 earth should induce me to disgrace myself or those I 
 belonged to." 
 
 " There spoke my Louise," said Morel, " or, rather, as 
 she would have spoken in her days of proud innocence. 
 How, then, if such were your sentiments — But go on, 
 go on." 
 
 " I was still concealed by the darkness, which I 
 trusted would preserve me, when I heard the door 
 closed which led from the antechamber, and which 
 my master had contrived to find by groping along 
 the wall. Thus, having me wholly in his power, he 
 returned to his chamber for a light, with which he 
 quickly returned, and then commenced a fresh attack, 
 the particulars of "which, my dearest father, I will not 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 venture to describe ; suffice it, that promises, threats, 
 violence, all were tried ; but anger, fear, and despair 
 armed me with fresh strength, and, while I continually 
 eluded his grasp, and fled for safety from room to room, 
 his rage at my determined resistance knew no bounds. 
 In his fury he even struck me with such frenzied violence 
 as to leave my features streaming with blood." 
 
 " You hear ! you hear ! " exclaimed the lapidary, 
 raising his clasped hands towards heaven, " and are 
 crimes like this to go unpunished ? Shall such a 
 monster escape and not pay a heavy penalty for his 
 wickedness ? " 
 
 " Trust me," said Rodolph, who seemed profoundly 
 meditating on what he heard, " trust me, this man's 
 time and hour will come. But continue your painful 
 narration, my poor girl, and shrink not from telling us 
 even its blackest details." 
 
 " The struggle between us had now gone on so long 
 that my strength began to fail me. I was conscious of 
 my own inability to resist further, when the porter, who 
 had returned home, rang the bell twice, — the usual sig- 
 nal when letters arrived and required to be fetched from 
 his hands. Fearing that, if I did not obey the summons, 
 the porter would bring the letters himself, M. Ferrand 
 said, ' Go ; utter but one word, and to-morrow sees your 
 father in prison. If you endeavour to quit this house, 
 the consequences will fall on him ; and, as for you, I 
 will take care no one shall take you into their house, 
 for, without exactly affirming it, I will contrive to make 
 every one think you have robbed me. Then, should any 
 person refer to me for your character, I shall speak of 
 you as an idle, unworthy girl whom I could keep no 
 longer.' 
 
 " The following day after this scene, spite of the 
 menaces of my master, I ran home to complain to my 
 father of the unkind usage I received, without daring, 
 however, to tell him all. His first desire was for me to 
 70 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 quit the house of M. Ferrand without delay. But, then, 
 a prison would close upon my poor parent; added to 
 which, my small earnings had become indispensably 
 necessary to our family since the illness of my mother, 
 and the bad character promised me by M. Ferrand 
 might possibly have prevented me from finding another 
 service for a very long time." 
 
 " Yes," said Morel, with gloomy bitterness, " we were 
 selfish and cowardly enough to allow our poor child to 
 return to that accursed roof. Oh, I spoke truly when I 
 said, ' Want, want, what mean, what degrading acts do 
 you not force us to commit ! ' " 
 
 " Alas, dear father, did you not try by every possible 
 means to procure these thirteen hundred francs ? And, 
 that being impossible, there was nothing left but to 
 submit ourselves to our fate." 
 
 " Go on, go on ; your parents have been your execu- 
 tioners, and we are far more guilty than yourself of all 
 the fearful consequences ! " exclaimed the lapidary, con- 
 cealing his face with his hands. 
 
 " When I next saw my master," said Louise, " he had 
 resumed the harsh and severe manner with which he or- 
 dinarily treated me. He made not the slightest reference 
 to the scene I have just related, while his housekeeper 
 persisted in her accustomed tormenting and unkind be- 
 haviour towards me, giving me scarcely sufficient food 
 to maintain my strength, and even locking the bread up 
 so that I could not help myself to a morsel ; she would 
 even carry her cruelty so far as to wilfully spoil and 
 damage the morsels left by herself and M. Ferrand for 
 my repasts, I always taking my meals after my master 
 and the housekeeper, who invariably sat down to table to- 
 gether. My nights were as painful as my days. I durst 
 not indulge in sleep, lest I should be surprised by the en- 
 trance of the notary. I had no means of securing my 
 chamber door, and the chest of drawers with which I 
 used to fasten myself in had been taken away, leaving 
 71 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 me only a small table, a chair, and my box. With these 
 articles I barricaded the door as well as I could, and 
 merely lay down in my clothes, ready to start up at the 
 least noise. Some time elapsed, however, without my 
 having any further alarm as regarded M. Ferrand, who 
 seemed to have altogether forgotten me, and seldom be- 
 stowed even a look on me. By degrees my fears died 
 away, and I became almost persuaded I had nothing 
 more to dread from the persecutions of my master. One 
 Sunday I had permission to visit my home, and with 
 extreme delight hastened to announce the happy change 
 that had taken place to my parents. Oh, how we all 
 rejoiced to think so ! Up to that moment, my dear 
 father, you know all that occurred. What I have still 
 to tell you," murmured Louise, as her voice sunk into 
 an inarticulate whisper, " is so dreadful that I have never 
 dared reveal it." 
 
 " I was sure, ah, too sure," cried Morel, with a wild- 
 ness of manner and rapidity of utterance which startled 
 and alarmed Rodolph, " that you were hiding something 
 from me. Too plainly did I perceive, by your pale and 
 altered countenance, that your mind was burthened with 
 some heavy secret. Many a time have I said so to your 
 mother ; but she, poor thing ! would not listen to me, 
 and even blamed me for making myself unnecessarily 
 miserable. So you see, that weakly, and selfish to escape 
 from trouble ourselves, we allowed our poor, helpless 
 child to remain under this monster's roof. And to what 
 have we reduced our poor girl ? Why, to be classed with 
 the felons and criminals of a prison! See, see what 
 comes of parents sacrificing their children. And, then, 
 too, be it remembered — after all — who knows ? True, 
 we are poor — very poor, and may be guilty — yes, yes, 
 quite right, guilty of throwing our daughter into shame 
 and disgrace. But, then, see how wretched and distressed 
 we were ! Besides, such as we — " Then, as if suddenly 
 striving to collect his bewildered ideas, Morel struck his 
 72 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 forehead, exclaiming, " Alas ! I know not what I say. 
 My brain bums and my senses seem deserting me. A 
 sort of bewilderment seems to come over me as though I 
 were stupefied with drink. Alas, alas ! I am going mad ! " 
 So saying, the unhappy man buried his face between his 
 hands. 
 
 Unwilling that Louise should perceive the extent of 
 his apprehensions as regarded the agitated state of the 
 lapidary, and how much alarm he felt at his wild, inco- 
 herent language, Rodolph gravely replied : 
 
 " You are unjust, Morel ; it was not for herself alone, 
 but for her aged and afflicted parent, her children, and 
 you, that your poor wife dreaded the consequences of 
 Louise's quitting the notary's house. Accuse no one ; 
 but let all your just anger, your bitter curses, fall on the 
 head that alone deserves it, — on that hypocritical mon- 
 ster who offered a weak and helpless girl the alternative 
 of infamy or ruin ; perhaps destruction ; perhaps death 
 to those she most tenderly loved, — on the fiend who 
 could thus abuse the power he held, thus prey upon the 
 tenderest, holiest feelings oi a loving daughter, thus 
 shamelessly outrage every moral and religious duty. 
 But patience ; as I before remarked, Providence fre- 
 quently reserves for crimes so black as this a fearful and 
 astounding retribution." 
 
 As Rodolph uttered these words, he spoke with a tone 
 so expressive of his own conviction of the certain ven- 
 geance of Heaven, that Louise gazed at her preserver 
 with a surprise not unmingied with fear. 
 
 " Go on, my poor girl," resumed Rodolph, addressing- 
 Louise ; " conceal nothing from us : it is more important 
 than you can be aware that you should relate the most 
 minute details of your sad story." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Louise proceeded : 
 
 " I began, therefore, as I told you, to regain my tran- 
 quillity, when one evening both M. Ferrand and his 
 housekeeper went out. They did not dine at home. I 
 73 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 was quite alone in the house. As usual, my allowance of 
 bread, wine, and water was left for me, and every place 
 carefully locked. When 1 had finished my work, I took 
 the food placed for me, and, having made my meal, I 
 retired to my bedroom, thinking it less dull than remain- 
 ing down-stairs by myself. I took care to leave a light 
 in the hall for my master, as when he dined out no one 
 ever sat up for him. Once in my chamber, I seated 
 myself and commenced my sewing ; but, contrary to my 
 usual custom, I found the greatest difficulty in keeping 
 myself awake. A heavy drowsiness seemed to steal 
 over, and a weight like lead seemed to press on my eye- 
 lids. Alas, dear father ! " cried Louise, interrupting 
 herself as though frightened at her own recital, " I feel 
 sure you will not credit what I am about to say, you will 
 believe I am uttering falsehoods ; and yet, here, over the 
 lifeless body of my poor little sister, I swear to the truth 
 of each word I speak." 
 
 " Explain yourself, my good girl," said Rodolph. 
 
 " Indeed, sir," answered Louise, "you ask me to do 
 that 1 have been vainly trying to accomplish during the 
 last seven months. In vain have I racked my brains to 
 endeavour to account for the events of that fatal night. 
 Sometimes I have almost grown distracted while trying 
 to clear up this fearful and mysterious occurrence." 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! " exclaimed the lapidary, suddenly 
 rousing from one of those fits of almost apathetic stupor 
 into which he had occasionally fallen from the very com- 
 mencement of this narration, " what dreadful thing is 
 she going to tell us ? " 
 
 " This lethargic feeling," continued Louise, " so com- 
 pletely overpowered me, that, unable any longer to re- 
 sist it, I at length, contrary to my usual custom, fell 
 asleep upon my chair. This is all I recollect before — 
 before — Oh, forgive me, father, forgive me ! indeed, 
 indeed, I am not guilty ; yet — " 
 
 " I believe you — I believe you ; but proceed." 
 74 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 " I know not how long I slept ; but when I awoke it 
 was to shame and dishonour, for I found M. Ferrand 
 beside me." 
 
 " 'Tis false ! 'tis false ! " screamed the lapidary, in a 
 tone of frenzied violence. " Confess that you yielded 
 to violence or to the ' dread of seeing me dragged to 
 prison, but do not seek to impose on me by falsehoods 
 such as this." 
 
 " Father ! father ! I call Heaven to witness I am telling 
 you the truth only." 
 
 " I tell you 'tis a base falsehood. Why should the 
 notary have wished to throw me in prison, since you had 
 freely yielded to his wishes ? " 
 
 " Yielded ! Oh, no, dear father, I would have died 
 first ! So deep was my sleep that it resembled that of 
 death. It may seem to you both extraordinary and 
 impossible, and I assure you that, up to the present 
 hour, I myself have never been able to understand it or 
 account for it — " 
 
 " But I can do so at once," said Rodolph, interrupting 
 Louise. " This crime alone was wanting to complete 
 the heavy calendar of that man's offences. Accuse not 
 your daughter, Morel, of seeking to deceive you. Tell 
 me, Louise, when you made your meal, before ascending 
 to your chamber, did you not remark something peculiar 
 in the taste of the wine given you to drink ? Try and 
 recollect this circumstance." 
 
 After reflecting a short time, Louise replied : 
 
 " Yes, I do indeed remember," answered she, " that 
 the wine and water left for me as usual had a somewhat 
 bitter taste ; but I did not pay much attention to it, 
 because the housekeeper would frequently, when spite- 
 fully inclined, amuse herself with throwing salt or 
 pepper into what I drank." 
 
 " But, on the day you were describing, your wine had 
 a bitter taste ? " 
 
 "It had, sir, but not sufficiently so to prevent my 
 75 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 drinking it ; and I attributed it to the wine being 
 turned." 
 
 Morel, with fixed eye and haggard look, listened both 
 to the questions of Rodolph and the answers of Louise 
 without appearing to understand to what they tended. 
 
 " And before falling asleep on your chair, did not your 
 head seem unusually heavy, and your limbs weary ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, I felt a fullness and throbbing in my 
 temples, an icy coldness seemed to fill my veins, and a 
 feeling of unusual discomfort oppressed me." 
 
 " Wretch, villainous wretch ! " exclaimed Rodolph. 
 " Are you aware, Morel, what this man made your poor 
 child take in her wine ? " 
 
 The artisan gazed at Rodolph without replying to his 
 question. 
 
 " His accomplice, the housekeeper, had mingled in 
 Louise's drink some sort of stupefying drug, most prob- 
 ably opium, by which means both the bodily and mental 
 powers of your unfortunate daughter were completely 
 paralysed for several hours ; and when she awoke from 
 this lethargic state it was to find herself dishonoured 
 and disgraced." 
 
 " Ah, now," exclaimed Louise, " my misfortune is 
 explained. You see, dear father, I am less guilty than 
 you thought me. Father ! dear, dear father ! look upon 
 me, bestow one little look of pity and of pardon on your 
 poor Louise ! " 
 
 But the glance of the lapidary was fixed and vacant ; 
 his honest mind could not comprehend the idea of so 
 black, so monstrous a crime as that ascribed to the 
 notary, and he gazed with blank wonder at the words he 
 heard, as though quite unable to affix any meaning to 
 them. And besides, during the latter part of the dis- 
 course, his intellect became evidently shaken, his ideas 
 became a shapeless, confused mass of wandering recol- 
 lections ; a mere chaotic mass of griefs and sorrows 
 possessed his brain, and he sank into a state of mental 
 76 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 prostration, which is to intellect what darkness is to the 
 sight, — the formidable symptoms of a weakened brain. 
 After a pause of some length, Morel replied, in a low, 
 hasty tone : 
 
 "Yes, yes; it is bad, very, very bad; cannot be 
 worse ! " and then relapsed into his former apathy ; 
 while Rodolph, watching him with pained attention, 
 perceived that the energy, even of indignation, was 
 becoming exhausted within the mind of the miserable 
 father, in the same manner as excess of grief will fre- 
 quently dry up the relief of tears. Anxious to put an 
 end as quickly as possible to the present trying scene, 
 Rodolph said to Louise : 
 
 " Proceed, my poor child, and let us have the 
 remainder of this tissue of horrors." 
 
 " Alas, sir ! what you have heard is as nothing to 
 that which follows. When I perceived M. Ferrand by 
 my side I uttered a cry of terror. My first impulse was 
 to rush from the room, but M. Ferrand forcibly detained 
 me ; and I still felt so weak, so stupefied with the medi- 
 cine you speak of as having been mingled in my drink, 
 that I was powerless as an infant. ' Why do you wish 
 to escape from me now ? ' inquired M. Ferrand, with an 
 air of surprise which filled me with dread. ' What fresh 
 caprice is this ? Am I not here by your own free will 
 and consent ? ' 4 Oh, sir ! ' exclaimed I, 4 this is most 
 shameful and unworthy, to take advantage of my sleep 
 to work my ruin ; but my father shall know all ! ' Here 
 my master interrupted me by bursting into loud laughter. 
 ' Upon my word, young lady,' said he, * you are very 
 amusing. So you are going to say that I availed myself 
 of your being asleep to effect your undoing. But who 
 do you suppose will credit such a falsehood ? It is now 
 four in the morning, and since ten o'clock last night I 
 have been here. You must have slept long and soundly 
 not to have discovered my presence sooner. Come, come, 
 no more attempts at shyness, but confess the truth, that 
 77 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 I came hither with your perfect good-will and consent. 
 You must be less capricious or we shall not keep good 
 friends, I fear. Your father is in my power. You have 
 no longer any cause to fly me. Be obedient to my wishes 
 and we shall do very well together ; but resist me, and 
 the consequences shall fall heavily on you, and your 
 family likewise.' 4 1 will tell my dear father of your con- 
 duct,' sobbed I ; ' he will avenge me, and the laws will 
 punish you.' M. Ferrand looked at me as though at a 
 loss to comprehend me. 4 Why, you have lost your 
 senses,' cried he ; 4 what, in Heaven's name, can you tell 
 your father ? That you thought proper to invite me to 
 your bedroom ? But, invent any tale you please, you 
 will soon find what sort of a reception it will meet with. 
 Why, your father will not look at you, much more 
 believe you.' 4 But you know,' cried I, 4 you well know, 
 sir, I gave no permission for your being here. You are 
 well aware you entered my chamber without my knowl- 
 edge, and are now here against my will.' 4 Against your 
 will ! And is it possible you have the effrontery to utter 
 such a falsehood, to dare insinuate that I have employed 
 force to gain my ends ? Do you wish to be convinced of 
 the folly of such an imputation ? Why, by my orders, 
 Germain, my cashier, returned here last night at ten 
 o'clock to complete some very important papers, and % 
 until one o'clock this morning he was writing in the 
 chamber directly under yours ; would he not then have 
 been sure to have heard the slightest sound, much less 
 the repetition of such a struggle as we had together a 
 little while ago, my saucy little beauty, when you were 
 not quite in as complying a humour as I found you in 
 last evening ? Germain must have heard you during 
 the stillness of the night had you but called for assist- 
 ance. Ask him, when you see him, whether any such 
 sound occurred ; he will tell you no, and that he worked 
 on uninterruptedly during the very hours you are accus- 
 ing me of forcibly entering your bedchamber.' " 
 78 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Rodolph, " the villain had evidently 
 taken every precaution to prevent detection." 
 
 " He had, indeed. As for me, sir," continued Louise, 
 " I was so thunderstruck with horror at these assertions 
 of M. Ferrand, that I knew not what to reply. Ignorant 
 of my having taken anything to induce sleep, I felt 
 wholly unable to account for my having slept so un- 
 usually heavy and long. Appearances were strongly 
 against me ; what would it avail for me to publish the 
 dreadful story ? No one would believe me innocent. 
 How, indeed, could I hope or expect they should, when 
 even to myself the events of that fatal night continued 
 an impenetrable mystery ? " 
 
 Even Rodolph remained speechless with horror at 
 this fearful revelation of the diabolical hypocrisy of M. 
 Ferrand. 
 
 " Then," said he, after a pause of some minutes, " you 
 never ventured to inform your father of the infamous 
 treatment you had received ? " 
 
 " No," answered she, " for I dreaded lest he might 
 suppose I had willingly listened to the persuasions of my 
 master ; and I also feared that, in the first burst of his 
 indignation, my poor father would forget that not only 
 his own freedom, but the very existence of his family, 
 depended upon the pleasure of M. Ferrand." 
 
 " And probably," continued Rodolph, desirous if pos- 
 sible to save Louise the painful confession, " probably, 
 yielding to constraint, and the dread of endangering the 
 safety of your father and family by a refusal, you con- 
 tinued to be the victim of this monster's brutality ? " 
 
 Louise spoke not, but her cast-down eyes, and the deep 
 blushes which dyed her pale cheek, answered most pain- 
 fully in the affirmative. 
 
 " And was his conduct afterwards less barbarous and 
 unfeeling than before ? " 
 
 " Not in the least. And when, by chance, my master 
 had the cure* and vicaire of Bonne Nouvelle to dine with 
 79 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 him, the better to avert all suspicion from himself, he 
 would scold me severely in their presence, and even beg 
 M. le Cure* to admonish me, assuring him that some day 
 or other I should fall into ruin ; that I was a girl of free 
 and bold manners, and that he could not make me keep 
 my distance with the young men in his office; that I 
 was an idle, unworthy person, whom he only kept out of 
 charity and pity for my father, who was an honest man 
 with a large family, whom he had greatly served and 
 obliged. With the exception of that part of the state- 
 ment which referred to my father, the rest was utterly 
 false. I never, by any chance, saw the clerks belonging 
 to his office, as it was situated in a building entirely 
 detached from the house." 
 
 " And, when alone with M. Ferrand, how did he 
 account for his treatment of you before the cure" ? " 
 
 " He assured me he was only jesting. However, the 
 cure* believed him, and reprehended me very severely, 
 saying that a person must be vicious indeed to go astray 
 in so godly a household, where I had none but the most 
 holy and religious examples before my eyes. I knew not 
 what answer to make to this address ; I felt my cheeks burn 
 and my eyes involuntarily cast down. All these indica- 
 tions of shame and confusion were construed to my dis- 
 advantage, until, at length, sick at heart, and weary, and 
 disgusted, my very life seemed a burden to me, and many 
 times I felt tempted to destroy myself ; but the thoughts 
 of my parents, my poor brothers and sisters, that my 
 small earnings helped to maintain, deterred me from 
 ending my sorrows by death. I therefore resigned my- 
 self to my wretched fate, finding one consolation, amidst 
 the degradation of my lot, in the thought that, at least, 
 I had preserved my father from the horrors of a prison. 
 But a fresh misfortune overwhelmed me ; I became 
 enceinte. I now felt myself lost indeed. A secret pre- 
 sentiment assured me that, when M. Ferrand became 
 aware of a circumstance which ought, at least, to have 
 80 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 rendered him less harsh and cruel, he would treat me 
 even more unkindly than before. I was still, however, 
 far from expecting what afterwards occurred." 
 
 At this moment, Morel, recovering from his temporary 
 abstraction, gazed around him, as though trying to col- 
 lect his ideas, then, pressing his hand upon his forehead, 
 looked at his daughter with an inquiring glance, and 
 said : 
 
 " I fancy I have been ill, or something is wrong with 
 my head — grief — fatigue — tell me, my child — what 
 were you saying just now ? I seem almost unable to 
 recollect." 
 
 " When," continued Louise, unheeding her father's 
 look, " when M. Ferrand discovered that I was likely to 
 become a mother — " 
 
 Here the lapidary waved his hand in despairing agony, 
 but Rodolph calmed him by an imploring look. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Morel, " let me hear all ; 'tis fit and 
 right the tale should be told. Go on, go on, my girl, and 
 I will listen from beginning to end." 
 
 Louise -went on. " I besought M. Ferrand to tell me 
 by what means I should conceal my shame, and the con- 
 sequence of a crime of which he was the author. Alas, 
 dear father, I can scarcely hope or believe you will credit 
 what I am about to tell you." 
 
 « What did he say ? Speak." 
 
 " Interrupting me with much indignation and well- 
 feigned surprise, he affected not to understand my mean- 
 ing, and even inquired whether I had not lost my senses. 
 Terrified, I exclaimed, ' Oh, sir, what is to become of 
 me ? Alas, if you have no pity on me, pity at least the 
 poor infant that must soon see the light ! ' 
 
 " < What a lost, depraved character ! ' cried M. Ferrand, 
 raising his clasped hands towards heaven. 'Horrible, 
 indeed ! Why, you poor, wretched girl, is it possible 
 that you have the audacity to accuse me of disgracing 
 myself by any illicit acquaintance with a person of your 
 81 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 infamous description? Can it be that you have the 
 hardihood to lay the fruits of your immoral conduct and 
 gross irregularity at my door, — I, who have repeated 
 a hundred times, in the presence of respectable wit- 
 nesses, that you would come to ruin some day, vile prof- 
 ligate that you are? Quit my house this instant, or I 
 will drive you out ! ' " 
 
 Rodolph and Morel were struck with horror; a 
 system of wickedness like this seemed to freeze their 
 blood. 
 
 " By Heaven ! " said Rodolph, " this surpasses any 
 horrors that imagination could have conceived." 
 
 Morel did not speak, but his eyes expanded fearfully, 
 whilst a convulsive spasm contracted his features. He 
 quitted the stool on which he was sitting, opened a 
 drawer suddenly, and, taking out a long and very sharp 
 file, fixed in a wooden handle, he rushed towards the 
 door. Rodolph, guessing his thoughts, seized his arm, 
 and stopped his progress. 
 
 " Morel, where are you going ? You will do a mis- 
 chief, unhappy man ! " 
 
 " Take care," exclaimed the infuriated artisan, strug- 
 gling, " or I shall commit two crimes instead of one ! " 
 and the madman threatened Rodolph. 
 
 " Father, it is our benefactor ! " exclaimed Louise. 
 
 "He is jesting at us ; he wants to save the notary," 
 replied Morel, quite crazed, and struggling with Rodolph. 
 At the end of a second, the latter disarmed him, care- 
 fully opened the door, and threw the file out on the 
 staircase. Louise ran to the lapidary, embraced him, 
 and said : 
 
 " Father, it is our benefactor ! You have raised your 
 hand against him, — recover yourself." 
 
 These words recalled Morel to himself, and hiding 
 his face in his hands, he fell mutely on his knees before 
 Rodolph. 
 
 " Rise, rise, unhappy father," said Rodolph, in accents 
 
 82 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 of great kindness ; " be patient, be patient, I understand 
 your wrath and share your hatred ; but, in the name of 
 your vengeance, do not compromise your daughter ! " 
 
 " Louise ! — my daughter ! " cried the lapidary, rising, 
 " but what can justice — the law — do against that? We 
 are but poor wretches, and were we to accuse this rich, 
 powerful, and respected man, we should be laughed to 
 scorn. Ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed convulsively, 
 " and they would be right. Where would be our 
 proofs ? — yes, our proofs ? No one would believe us. 
 So, I tell you' — I tell you," he added, with increased 
 fury, " I tell you that I have no confidence but in the 
 impartiality of my knife." 
 
 " Silence, Morel ! your grief distracts you," said 
 Rodolph to him sorrowfully ; " let your daughter 
 speak ; the moments are precious ; the magistrate 
 waits ; I must know all, — all, I tell you ; go on, my 
 child." 
 
 Morel fell back on the stool, overwhelmed with his 
 anguish. 
 
 " It is useless, sir," continued Louise, " to tell you of 
 my tears, my prayers. I was thunderstruck. This took 
 place at ten o'clock in the morning in M. Ferrand's 
 private room. The curate was coming to breakfast 
 With him, and entered at the moment when my master 
 was assailing me with reproach and accusations. He 
 appeared much put out at the sight of the priest." 
 
 " What occurred then ? " 
 
 " Oh, he soon recovered himself, and exclaimed, call- 
 him by name, ' Well, Monsieur l'Abbe, I said so, I said 
 this unhappy girl would be undone. She is ruined, 
 ruined for ever ; she has just confessed to me her fault 
 and her shame, and entreated me to save her. Only 
 think that, from commiseration, I have received such a 
 wanton into my house ! ' i How,' said the abbe* to me 
 with indignation, ' in spite of the excellent counsels 
 which your master has given you a hundred times in 
 83 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 my presence, have you really sunk so low ? Oh, it is 
 unpardonable ! My friend, my friend, after the kindness 
 you have evinced towards this wretched girl and her 
 family, any pity would be weakness. Be inexorable,' 
 said the abbe", the dupe, like the rest of the world, of 
 M. Ferrand's hypocrisy." 
 
 " And you did not unmask the scoundrel on the 
 spot ? " ask Rodolph. 
 
 " Ah, no ! monsieur, I was terrified, my head was in 
 a whirl, I did not dare, I could not pronounce a word, 
 — yet I was anxious to speak and defend myself. ' But 
 sir — 'I cried. ' Not one word more, unworthy creature,' 
 said M. Ferrand, interrupting me. f You heard M. 
 l'Abbe\ Pity would be weakness. In an hour you 
 leave my house ! ' Then, without allowing me time to 
 reply, he led the abbe" into another room. After the 
 departure of M. Ferrand," resumed Louise, " I was 
 almost bereft of my senses for a moment. I was 
 driven from his house, and unable to find any home 
 elsewhere, in consequence of my condition, and the 
 bad character which my master would give with me. 
 I felt sure, too, that in his rage he would send my 
 father to prison ; and I did not know what to do. I 
 went to my room, and there I wept bitterly. At the 
 end of two hours M. Ferrand appeared. ' Is your bundle 
 made up?' said he. 'Pardon,' I exclaimed, falling at 
 his feet, ' do not turn me from your house in my present 
 condition. What will become of me ? I have no place 
 to turn to.' ' So much the better ; this is the way that 
 God punishes loose behaviour and falsehood.' ' Dare you 
 say that I tell falsehood?' I asked, indignantly, ' dare 
 you say that it is not you who have caused my ruin ? ' 
 ' Leave my house this moment, you wretch, since you 
 persist in your calumnies ! ' he replied in a terrible 
 voice ; ' and to punish you I will to-morrow send your 
 father to the gaol.' 4 Well, no, no ! ' said I, terrified ; ' I 
 will not again accuse you, sir ; that I promise you ; but 
 84 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 do not drive me away from the house. Have pity on 
 my father. The little I earn here helps to support my 
 family. Keep me here ; I will say nothing. I will 
 endeavour to hide every thing; and when I can no 
 longer do so, oh, then, but not till then, send me away ! ' 
 After fresh entreaties on my part, M. Ferrand consented 
 to keep me with him; and I considered that a great 
 favour in my wretched condition. During the time that 
 followed this cruel scene, I was most wretched, and 
 miserably treated ; only sometimes M. Germain, whom I 
 seldom saw, kindly asked me what made me unhappy ; 
 but shame prevented me from confessing anything to 
 him." 
 
 "Was not that about the time when he came to 
 reside here?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, he was looking out for an apartment near 
 the Rue du Temple or de PArsenal. There was one to 
 let here, and I told him of that one which you now 
 occupy, sir, and it suited him exactly. When he quitted 
 it, about two months ago, he begged me not to mention 
 his new address here, but that they knew it at M. 
 Ferrand's." 
 
 The necessity under which Germain was to conceal 
 himself from those who were trying to find him explained 
 all these precautions to Rodolph. 
 
 " And it never occurred to you to make a confidant of 
 Germain ?" he said to Louise. 
 
 " No, sir, he was also a dupe to the hypocrisy of M. 
 Ferrand ; he called him harsh and exacting ; but he 
 thought him the honestest man on the face of the earth." 
 
 " When Germain was lodging here, did he never hear 
 your father at times accuse the notary of desiring to 
 seduce you ? " 
 
 " My father never expressed his fears before strangers ; 
 and besides, at this period, I deceived his uneasiness, and 
 comforted him by the assurances that M. Ferrand no 
 longer thought of me. Alas ! my poor father will now 
 85 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 forgive me those falsehoods ? I only employed them to 
 tranquillise your mind, father dear, that was all." 
 
 Morel made no reply ; he only leaned his forehead on 
 his two arms, crossed on his working-board, and sobbed 
 bitterly. 
 
 Rodolph made a sign to Louise not to address herself 
 to her father, and she continued thus : 
 
 " I led from this time a life of tears and perpetual 
 anguish. By using every precaution, I had contrived to 
 conceal my condition from all eyes ; but I could not hope 
 thus to hide it during the last two months. The future 
 became more and more alarming to me, as M. Ferrand 
 had declared that he would not keep me any longer in 
 the house ; and therefore I should be deprived of the 
 small resources which assisted our family to live. 
 Cursed and driven from my home by my father, for, 
 after the falsehoods I had told him to set his mind at 
 ease, he would believe me the accomplice, and not the 
 victim of M. Ferrand, what was to become of me ? where 
 could I find refuge or place myself in my condition ? I 
 then had a criminal idea ; but, fortunately, I recoiled 
 from putting it into execution. I confess this to you, 
 sir, because I will not keep any thing concealed, not even 
 that which may tell against myself; and thus I may 
 show you the extremities to which I was reduced by the 
 cruelty of M. Ferrand. If I had given way to such a 
 thought, would he not have been the accomplice of my 
 crime ? " 
 
 After a moment's silence, Louise resumed with great 
 effort, and in a trembling voice : 
 
 " I had heard say by the porteress that a quack doctor 
 lived in the house, — and, — " 
 
 She could not finish. 
 
 Rodolph recollected that, at 'his first interview with 
 Madame Pipelet, he had received from the postman, in 
 her absence, a letter written on coarse paper, in a feigned 
 hand, and on which he had remarked the traces of tears. 
 
 86 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 " And you wrote to him, unhappy girl, three days 
 since ? You wept over your letter ; and the handwriting 
 was disguised." 
 
 Louise looked at Rodolph in great consternation. 
 
 " How did you know that, sir f 
 
 " Do not alarm yourself ; I was alone in Madame 
 Pipelet's lodge when they brought in the letter ; and I 
 remarked it quite accidentally." 
 
 " Yes, sir, it was mine. In this letter, which bore no 
 signature, I wrote to M. Bradamanti, saying that, as I 
 did not dare to go to him, I would beg him to be in the 
 evening near the Chateau d'Eau. I had lost my senses. 
 I sought fearful advice from him ; and I left my master's 
 house with the intention of following them ; but, at the 
 end of a minute, my reason returned to me, and I saw 
 what a crime I was about to commit. I returned to the 
 house, and did not attend the appointment I had written 
 for. That evening an event occurred, the consequences 
 of which caused the misfortune which has overwhelmed 
 me. M. Ferrand thought I had gone out for a couple of 
 hours, whilst, in reality, I had been gone but a very 
 short time. As I passed before the small garden gate, 
 to my great surprise I saw it half open. I entered by it, 
 and took the key into M. Ferrand's private room, where 
 it was usually kept. This apartment was next to his 
 bedroom, the most retired place in the house ; and it was 
 there he had his private meetings with clients and others, 
 transacting his every-day business in the office. You 
 will see, sir, why I give you these particulars. As I very 
 well knew the ways of the apartments, after having 
 crossed the dining-room, which was lighted up, I entered 
 into the salon without any candle, and then into the 
 little closet, which was on this side of his sleeping-room. 
 The door of this latter opened at the moment when I was 
 putting the key on a table ; and the moment my master 
 saw me by the light of the lamp, which was burning in 
 his chamber, then he suddenly shut the door on some 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PAKIS. 
 
 person whom I could not see, and then, in spite of the 
 darkness, rushed towards me and, seizing me by the 
 throat as if he would strangle me, said, in a low voice, 
 and in a tone at once savage and alarmed, ' What ! lis- 
 tening ! — spying at the door ! What did you hear ? 
 Answer me, — answer directly, or I'll strangle you.' 
 But, suddenly changing his idea, and not giving me time 
 to say a word, he drove me back into the dining-room ; 
 the office door was open, and he brutally thrust me in 
 and shut the door." 
 
 " And you did not hear the conversation ? " 
 
 " Not a word, sir ; if I had known that there was any 
 one in his room with him, I should have been careful not 
 to have gone there. He even forbade Madame SeVaphin 
 from doing so." 
 
 " And, when you left the office, what did he say to you ? " 
 
 " It was the housekeeper who let me out, and I did not 
 see M. Ferrartd again that night. His violence to me, 
 and the fright I had undergone, made me very ill indeed. 
 The next day, at the moment when I went down-stairs, 
 I met M. Ferrand, and I shuddered when I remembered 
 his threats of the night before ; what then was my sur- 
 prise when he said to me calmly, ' You knew that I for- 
 bid any one to enter my private room when I have any 
 person there ; but, for the short time longer you will 
 stay here, it is useless to scold you any more.' And 
 then he went into his study. This mildness astonished 
 me after his violence of the previous evening. I went on 
 with my work as usual, and was going to put his bed- 
 chamber to rights. I had suffered a great deal all night, 
 and was weak and exhausted. Whilst I was hanging up 
 some clothes in a dark closet at the end of the room 
 near the bed, I was suddenly seized with a painful giddi- 
 ness, and felt as if I should lose my senses ; as I fell, I 
 tried to support myself by grasping at a large cloak 
 which hung against the wainscot ; but in my fall I drew 
 this cloak down on me, and was almost entirely covered 
 88 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 by it. When I came to myself, the glass door of the 
 above closet was shut. I heard M. Ferrand's voice, — he 
 was speaking aloud. Remembering the scene of the 
 previous evening, I thought I should be killed if I stirred. 
 I suppose that, hidden by the cloak which had fallen on 
 me, my master did not perceive me when he shut the 
 door of this dark wardrobe. If he found me, how could 
 I account for, and make him believe, this singular acci- 
 dent ? I, therefore, held my breath, and in spite of my- 
 self, overheard the conclusion of this conversation which, 
 no doubt had begun some time." 
 
 " And who was the person who was talking with the 
 notary and shut up in this room with him?" inquired 
 Rodolph of Louise. 
 
 " I do not know, sir ; I did not recognise the voice." 
 
 " And what were they saying ? " 
 
 " No doubt they had been conversing some time ; but 
 all I heard was this : ' Nothing more easy,' said the un- 
 known voice ; ' a fellow named Bras Rouge has put me, 
 for the affair I mentioned to you just now, in connection 
 with a family of " fresh-water pirates," 1 established on the 
 point of a small islet near Asnieres. They are the great- 
 est scoundrels on earth ; the father and grandfather were 
 guillotined ; two of the sons were condemned to the gal- 
 leys for life ; but there are still left a mother, three sons, 
 and two daughters, all as infamous as they can possibly 
 be. They say that at night, in order to plunder on both 
 sides of the Seine, they sometimes come down in their 
 boats as low as Bercy. They are ruffians, who will kill 
 any one for a crown-piece ; but we shall not want their 
 aid further than their hospitality for your lady from the 
 country. The Martials — that is the name of these 
 pirates — will pass in her eyes for an honest family of 
 fishers. I will go, as if from you, to pay two or three 
 visits to your young lady. I will order her a few com- 
 forting draughts ; and at the end of a week or ten days, 
 
 1 We shall hear more particulars of these worthies in another chapter. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 she will form an acquaintance with the burial-ground of 
 Asni&res. In villages, deaths are looked on as nothing 
 more than a letter by the post, whilst in Paris they are 
 a little more curious in such matters. But when do you 
 send your young lady from the provinces to the isle of 
 Asnieres, for I must give the Martials notice of the part 
 they have to play ? ' ' She will arrive here to-morrow, 
 and next day I shall send her to them,' replied M. 
 Ferrand ; 4 and I shall tell her that Doctor Vincent will 
 pay her a visit at my request.' 4 Ah, Vincent will do as 
 well as any other name,' said the voice." 
 
 " What new mystery of crime and infamy ? " said 
 Rodolph, with increased astonishment. 
 
 " New ? No, sir, you will see that it is in connection 
 with another crime that you know of," resumed Louise, 
 who thus continued : " I heard a movement of chairs, — 
 the interview had ended. ' I do not ask the secret of 
 you/ said M. Ferrand, 4 you behave to me as I behave 
 to you.' ' Thus we may mutually, serve without any 
 power mutually to injure each other,' answered the 
 voice. ' Observe my zeal ! I received your letter at ten 
 o'clock last night, and here I am this morning. Good- 
 by, accomplice ; do not forget the isle of Asnieres, the 
 fisher Martial, and Doctor Vincent. Thanks to these 
 three magic words, your country damsel has only eight 
 days to look forward to.' 4 Wait,' said M. Ferrand, 
 4 whilst I go and undo the safety-bolt, which I have 
 drawn to in my closet, and let me look out and see that 
 there is no one in the antechamber, in order that you 
 may go out by the side path in the garden by which 
 you entered.' M. Ferrand went out for a moment, and 
 then returned ; and I heard him go away with the person 
 whose voice I did not know. You may imagine my fright, 
 sir, during this conversation, and my despair at having 
 unintentionally discovered such a secret. Two hours after 
 this conversation, Madame SeVaphin came to me in my 
 room, whither I had gone, trembling all over, and worse 
 90 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 than I had been yet. < My master is inquiring for you/ 
 said she tome; ' you are better off than you deserve to 
 be. Come, go down-stairs. You are very pale ; but what 
 you are going to hear will give you a colour.' I followed 
 Madame Seraphin, and found M. Ferrand in his private 
 study. When I saw him, I shuddered in spite of myself, 
 and yet he did not look so disagreeable as usual. He 
 looked at me steadfastly for some time, as if he would 
 read the bottom of my thoughts. I lowered my eyes. 
 'You seem very ill?' he said. 'Yes, sir,' I replied, 
 much surprised at being thus addressed. ' It is easily 
 accounted for,' added he ; 4 it is the result of your condi- 
 tion and the efforts you make to conceal it ; but, in spite 
 of your falsehoods, your bad conduct, and your indiscre- 
 tion yesterday,' he added, in a milder tone, ' I feel pity 
 for you. A few days more, and it will be impossible to 
 conceal your situation. Although I have treated you 
 as you deserve before the curate of the parish, such an 
 event in the eyes. of the world will be the disgrace of 
 a house like mine ; and, moreover, your family will 
 be deeply distressed. Under these circumstances I will 
 come to your aid.' ' Ah ! sir,' I cried, ' such kind words 
 from you make me forget everything.' ' Forget what ? ' 
 asked he, hastily. ' Nothing, — nothing, — forgive me, 
 sir ! ' I replied, fearful of irritating him, and believing 
 him kindly disposed towards me. ' Then attend to me,' 
 said he ; ' you will go to see your father to-day, and tell 
 him that I am going to send you into the country for 
 two or three months, to take care of a house which 
 I have just bought. During your absence I will send 
 your wages to him. To-morrow you will leave Paris. 
 I will give you a letter of introduction to Madame Mar- 
 tial, the mother of an honest family of fishers, who live 
 near Asnieres. You will say you came from the country 
 and nothing more. You will learn hereafter my motive 
 for this introduction, which is for your good. Madame 
 Martial will treat you as one of the family, and a med- 
 91 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 ical man of my acquaintance, Dr. Vincent, will give you 
 all you require in your situation. You see how kind I 
 am to you ! ' " 
 
 " What a horrible snare ! " exclaimed Rodolph ; " I see 
 it all now. Believing that overnight you had listened 
 to some secret, no doubt very important for him, he 
 desired to get rid of you. He had probably an interest 
 in deceiving his accomplice by describing you as a female 
 from the country. What must have been your alarm at 
 this proposal ? " 
 
 " It was like a violent blow ; it quite bereft me of 
 sense. I could not reply, but looked at M. Ferrand 
 aghast ; my head began to wander. I should, perhaps, 
 have risked my life by telling him that I had overheard 
 his projects in the morning, when fortunately I recol- 
 lected the fresh perils to which such an avowal would 
 expose me. < You do not understand me, then ? ' he 
 said, impatiently. ' Yes, sir, — but,' I added, all trem- 
 bling, ' I should prefer not going into the country.' 
 ' Why not ? You will be taken every care of where 
 I send you.' 4 No, no, I will not go ; I would rather 
 remain in Paris, and not go away from my family ; I 
 would rather confess all to them, and die with them, 
 if it must be so.' < You refuse me, then ? ' said M. 
 Ferrand, repressing his rage, and looking fixedly at me. 
 < Why have you so suddenly changed your mind ? No. 
 a minute ago you accepted my offer.' I saw that if he 
 guessed my motive I was lost, so I replied that I did not 
 then think that he desired me to leave Paris and my 
 family. 4 But you dishonour your family, you wretched 
 girl ! ' he exclaimed, and unable any longer to restrain 
 himself, he seized me by the arms, and shook me so 
 violently that I fell. < I will give you until the day after 
 to-morrow,' he cried, ' and then you shall go from here 
 to the Martials, or go and inform your father that I have 
 turned you out of my house, and will send him to gaol 
 to-morrow.' He then left me, stretched on the floor, 
 92 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 whence I had not the power to rise. Madame Se*raphin 
 had run in when she heard her master raise his voice 
 so loud, and with her assistance, and staggering at every 
 step, I regained my chamber, where I threw myself on 
 my bed, and remained until night, so entirely was I pros- 
 trated by all that had happened. By the pains that came 
 on about one o'clock in the morning, I felt assured that 
 I should be prematurely a mother." 
 
 " Why did you not summon assistance ? " 
 
 "Oh, I did not dare. M. Ferrand was anxious to get 
 rid of me, and he would certainly have sent for Dr. 
 Vincent, who would have killed me at my master's 
 instead of killing me at the Martials, or else M. Ferrand 
 would have stifled me, and said that I had died in my 
 confinement. Alas, sir, perhaps these were vain terrors, 
 but they came over me at this moment and caused my 
 suffering; otherwise I would have endured the shame, 
 and should never have been accused of killing my child. 
 Instead of calling for help, and for fear my cries should 
 be heard, I stuffed my mouth full with the bedclothes. 
 At length, after dreadful anguish, alone, in the midst 
 of darkness, the child was born, and, — dead, — I did not 
 kill it ! — indeed, I did not kill it, — ah, no ! In the 
 midst of this fearful night I had one moment of bitter 
 joy, and that was when I pressed my child in my arms." 
 
 And the voice of Louise was stifled with sobs. 
 
 Morel had listened to his daughter's recital with a 
 mournful apathy and indifference which alarmed Ro- 
 dolph. However, seeing her burst into tears, the 
 lapidary, who was still leaning on his work-board 
 with his two hands pressed against his temples, 
 looked at Louise steadfastly, and said : 
 
 " She weeps, — she weeps, — why is she weeping ? " 
 Then, after a moment's hesitation, " Ah, yes, — I know, 
 I know, — the notary, — isn't it ? Go on my poor 
 Louise, — you are my daughter, — I love you still, — 
 just now I did not recognise you, — my eyes were dark- 
 93 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 ened with my tears, — oh, my head, — how badly it 
 aches, — my head, my head ! " 
 
 " You do not believe me guilty, do you, father, do 
 you ? " 
 
 « Oh, no, no ! " 
 
 " It is a terrible misfortune ; but I was so fearful of 
 the notary." 
 
 " The notary ? Ah, yes, and well you might be ; he 
 is so wicked, so very wicked ! " 
 " But you will forgive me now ? " 
 " Yes, yes." 
 « Really and truly ? " 
 
 " Yes — ah, yes ! Ah ! I love you the same as ever, 
 — although I cannot — not say — you see — because — 
 oh, my head, my head ! " 
 
 Louise looked at Rodolph in extreme alarm. 
 
 " He is suffering deeply ; but let him calm himself. 
 Go on." 
 
 Louise, after looking twice or thrice at Morel with 
 great disquietude, thus resumed: 
 
 " I clasped my infant to my breast, and was aston- 
 ished at not hearing it breathe. I said to myself, ' The 
 breathing of a baby is so faint that it is difficult to hear 
 it.' But then it was so cold. I had no light, for they 
 never would leave one with me. I waited until the 
 dawn came, trying to keep it warm as well as I could ; 
 but it seemed to me colder and colder. I said to my- 
 self then ; ' It freezes so hard that it must be the 
 cold that chills it so.' At daybreak I carried my child 
 to the window and looked at it ; it was stiff and cold. I 
 placed my mouth to its mouth, to try and feel its breath. 
 I put my hand on its heart ; but it did not beat ; it was 
 dead." 
 
 And Louise burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh ! at this moment," she continued, " something 
 passed within me which it is impossible to describe. 
 I only remember confusedly what followed, — it was 
 94 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 like a dream, — it was at once despair, terror, rage, 
 and above all, I was seized with another fear ; I no 
 longer feared M. Ferrand would strangle me, hut I 
 feared that, if they found my child dead by my side, 
 f I should be accused of having killed it. Then I had but 
 one thought, and that was to conceal the corpse from 
 everybody's sight ; and then my dishonour would not be 
 known, and I should no longer have to dread my father's 
 anger. I should escape from M. Ferrand's vengeance, 
 because I could now leave his house, obtain another 
 situation, and gain something to help and support my 
 family. Alas ! sir, such were the reasons which induced 
 me not to say any thing, but try and hide my child's 
 remains from all eyes. I was wrong, I know ; but, in 
 the situation in which I was, oppressed on all sides, 
 worn out by suffering, and almost mad, I did not con- 
 sider to what I exposed myself if I should be discovered." 
 
 " What torture ! what torture ! " said Rodolph with 
 deep sympathy. 
 
 " The day was advancing," continued Louise, " and I 
 had but a few moments before me until the household 
 would be stirring. I hesitated no longer, but, wrapping 
 up the unhappy babe as well as I could, I descended the 
 staircase silently, and went to the bottom of the garden 
 to try and make a hole in the ground to bury it ; but it 
 had frozen so hard in the night that I could not dig up 
 the earth. So I concealed the body in the bottom of a 
 sort of cellar, into which no one entered during the 
 winter, and then I covered it up with an empty box 
 which had held flowers, and returned to my apartment, 
 without any person having seen me. Of all I tell you, 
 sir, I have but a very confused recollection. Weak as I 
 was, it is inexplicable to me how I had strength and 
 courage to do all I did. At nine o'clock Madame 
 Se'raphin came to inquire why I had not risen. I told 
 her that I was so very ill, and prayed of her to allow me 
 to remain in bed during the day, and that on the follow- 
 95 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 ing day I should quit the house, as M. Ferrand had dis- 
 missed me. At the end of an hour's time, he came 
 himself. ' You are worse to-day. Ah ! that is the con- 
 sequence of your obstinacy,' said he ; 'if you had taken 
 advantage of my kind offer, you would to-day have been 
 comfortably settled with some worthy people, who would 
 have taken every care of you ; but I will not be so cruel 
 as to leave you without help in your present situation ; 
 and this evening Doctor Vincent shall come and see 
 you.' At this threat I shuddered ; but I replied to M. 
 Ferrand that I was wrong to refuse his offers the even- 
 ing before, and that I would now accept them ; but that, 
 being too ill to move then, I could not go until the day 
 after the next to the Martials, and that it was useless to 
 send for Doctor Vincent. I only sought to gain time, for 
 I had made up my mind to leave the house, and go the 
 next day to my father, whom I hoped to keep in ignorance 
 of all. Relying on my promise, M. Ferrand was almost 
 kind to me, and, for the first time in his life, recom- 
 mended Madame Seraphin to take care of me. I passed 
 the day in mental agony, trembling every instant lest 
 the body of my child should be accidentally discovered. 
 I was only anxious that the frost should break up, so 
 that, the ground not being so hard, I might be able to 
 dig it up. The snow began to fall, and that gave me 
 some hopes. I remained all day in bed, and when the 
 night came, I waited until every one should be asleep, 
 and then I summoned strength enough to rise and go to 
 the wood-closet, where I found a chopper, with which I 
 hoped to dig a hole in the ground which was covered 
 with snow. After immense trouble I succeeded, and 
 then, taking the body, I wept bitterly over it, and 
 buried it as well as I could in the little box that 
 had held flowers. I did not know the prayer for the 
 dead ; but I said a Pater and an Ave, and prayed to 
 the good God to receive it into Paradise. I thought my 
 courage would fail me when I was covering the mould 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 over the sort of bier I had made. A mother burying 
 her own child ! At length I completed my task, and ah, 
 what it cost me ! I covered the place all over with 
 snow, that it might conceal every trace of what I had 
 4 done. The moon had lighted me ; yet, when all was 
 done, I could hardly resolve to go away. Poor little 
 innocent ! — in the icy ground, — beneath the snow ! 
 Although it was dead, yet I still seemed to fear that it 
 must feel the cold. At length I returned to my cham- 
 ber ; and when I got into bed I was in a violent fever. 
 In the morning M. Ferrand sent to know how I found 
 myself. I replied that I was a little better, and that I 
 felt sure I should be strong enough to go next day into 
 the country. I remained the whole of the day in bed, 
 hoping to acquire a little strength, and in the evening I 
 arose and went down into the kitchen to warm myself. I 
 was then quite alone, and then went out into the garden to 
 to say a last prayer. As I went up to my room I met M. 
 Germain on the landing-place of the study in which he 
 wrote sometimes, looking very pale. He said to me 
 hastily, placing a rouleau of money in my hand, ' They 
 are going to arrest your father to-morrow morning for 
 an over-due bill of thirteen hundred francs ; he is unable 
 to pay it ; but here is the money. As soon as it is light, 
 run to him. It was only to-day that I found out what 
 sort of a man M. Ferrand is ; and he is a villain. I 
 will unmask him. Above all, do not say that you have 
 the money from me.' 
 
 " M. Germain did not even give me time to thank 
 him, but ran quickly down-stairs. This morning," con- 
 tinued Louise, " before any one had risen at M. Ferrand's, 
 I came here with the money which M. Germain had given 
 me to save my father ; but it was not enough, and but 
 for your generosity, I could not have rescued him from 
 the, bailiff's hands. Probably, after I had left, they went 
 into my room and, having suspicions, have now sent 
 to arrest me. One last service, sir," said Louise, taking 
 97 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 the rouleau of gold from her pocket, " will you give back 
 this money to M. Germain ; I had promised him not to 
 say to any one that he was employed at M. Ferrand's ; 
 but, since you know it, I have not broken my confidence. 
 Now, sir, I repeat to you before God, who hears me, that 
 I have not said a word that is not quite true ; I have not 
 tried to hide my faults, and — " 
 
 But, suddenly interrupting herself, Louise exclaimed 
 with alarm: 
 
 " Sir, sir, look at my father ! what can be the matter 
 with him?" 
 
 Morel had heard the latter part of this narration with 
 a dull indifference, which Rodolph had accounted for by 
 attributing it to the heavy additional misfortune which 
 had occurred to him. After such violent and repeated 
 shocks, his tears must have dried up, his sensibility have 
 become lost ; he had not even the strength left to feel 
 anger, as Rodolph thought ; but Rodolph was mistaken. 
 As the flame of a candle which is nearly extinguished 
 dies away and recovers, so Morel's reason, already much 
 shaken, wavered for some time, throwing out now and 
 then some small rays of intelligence, and then suddenly 
 all was darkness. 
 
 Absolutely unconscious of what was said or passing 
 around him, for some time the lapidary had become 
 quite insane. Although his hand-wheel was placed on 
 the other side of his working-table, and he had not in 
 his hands either stones or tools, yet the occupied artisan 
 was feigning the operations of his daily labour, and 
 affecting to use his implements. He accompanied 
 this pantomime with a sort of noise with his tongue 
 against the roof of his mouth, in imitation of the noise 
 of his lathe in its rotatory motions. 
 
 " But, sir," said Louise again, with increasing fright, 
 " look, pray look at my father ! " 
 
 Then, approaching the artisan, she said to him : 
 
 "Father! father!" 
 
 98 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 Morel gazed on his daughter with that troubled, vague, 
 distracted, wandering look which characterises the insane, 
 and without discontinuing his assumed labour, he replied, 
 in a low and melancholy tone : 
 
 " I owe the notary thirteen hundred francs ; it is the 
 price of Louise's blood, — so I must work, work, work ! 
 — oh, I'll pay, I'll pay, I'll pay!" 
 
 " Can it be possible ? This cannot be, — he is not 
 mad, — no, no ! " exclaimed Louise, in a heart-rending 
 voice. " He will recover, — it is but a momentary fit of 
 absence ! " 
 
 " Morel, my good fellow," said Rodolph to him, " we 
 are here. Your daughter is near you, — she is inno- 
 cent." 
 
 " Thirteen hundred francs ! " said the lapidary, not 
 attending to Rodolph, but going on with his sham 
 employment. 
 
 " My father ! " exclaimed Louise, throwing herself at 
 his feet, and clasping his hands in her own, in spite of 
 his resistance, " it is I — it is your Louise ! " 
 
 " Thirteen hundred francs," he repeated, wresting his 
 hands from the grasp of his daughter. " Thirteen hun- 
 dred francs, — and if not," he added, in a low and as it 
 were, confidential tone, " and if not, Louise is to be 
 guillotined." 
 
 And again he imitated the turning of his lathe. 
 
 Louise gave a piercing shriek. 
 
 " He is mad ! " she exclaimed, " he is mad ! and it is 
 I — it is I who am the cause ! Oh ! Yet it is not 
 my fault, — I did not desire to do ill, — -it was that 
 monster." 
 
 " Courage, courage, my poor girl," said Rodolph, " let 
 us hope that this attack is but momentary. Your father 
 has suffered so much ; so many troubles, all at once, 
 were more than he could bear. His reason wanders for 
 a moment ; it will soon be restored." 
 
 "But my mother, my grandmother, my sisters, my 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 brothers, what will become of them all ? " exclaimed 
 Louise, " Now they are deprived of my father and my- 
 self, they must die of hunger, misery and despair ! " 
 
 " Am I not here ? — make your mind easy ; they shall 
 want for nothing. Courage, I say to you. Your dis- 
 closure will bring about the punishment of a great crim- 
 inal. You have convinced me of your innocence, and I 
 have no doubt but that it will be discovered and pro- 
 claimed." 
 
 "Ah, sir, you see, — dishonour, madness, death, — see 
 the miseries which that man causes, and yet no one can 
 do any thing against him ! Nothing ! The very thought 
 completes all my wretchedness." 
 
 " So far from that, let the contrary thought help to 
 support you." 
 
 " What mean you, sir ? " 
 
 " Take with you the assurance that your father, your- 
 self, and your family shall be avenged." 
 " Avenged ! " 
 
 " Yes, that I swear to you," replied Rodolph, solemnly ; 
 " I swear to you that his crimes shall be exposed, and this 
 man shall bitterly expiate the dishonour, madness, and 
 death which he has caused. If the laws are powerless 
 to reach him, if his cunning and skill equal his misdeeds, 
 then his cunning must be met by cunning, his skill must 
 be counteracted by skill, his misdeeds faced by other 
 misdeeds, but which shall be to his but a just and 
 avenging retribution, inflicted on a guilty wretch by an 
 inexorable hand, when compared to a cowardly and base 
 murder." 
 
 " Ah, sir, may Heaven hear you ! It is no longer 
 myself whom I seek to avenge, but a poor, distracted 
 father, — my child killed in its birth — " 
 
 Then, trying another effort to turn Morel from his 
 insanity, Louise again exclaimed : 
 
 " Adieu, father ! They are going to lead me to prison, 
 and I shall never see you again. It is your poor Louise 
 100 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 who bids you adieu. My father ! my father ! my 
 father!" 
 
 To this distressing appeal there was no response. In 
 that poor, destroyed mind there was no echo, — none. 
 , The paternal cords, always the last broken, no longer 
 vibrated. 
 
 The door of the garret opened; the commissary 
 entered. 
 
 " My moments are numbered, sir," said he to Rodolph. 
 " I declare to you with much regret that I cannot allow 
 this conversation to be protracted any longer." 
 
 " This conversation is ended, sir," replied Rodolph, 
 bitterly, and pointing to the lapidary. " Louise has 
 nothing more to say to her father, — he has nothing 
 more to hear from his daughter, — he is a lunatic." 
 
 " I feared as much. It is really frightful ! " exclaimed 
 the magistrate. 
 
 And approaching the workman hastily, after a 
 minute's scrutiny, he was convinced of the sad 
 reality. 
 
 " Ah, sir," said he sorrowfully to Rodolph, " I had 
 already expressed my sincerest wishes that the inno- 
 cence of> this young girl might be discovered ; but after 
 such a misfortune I will not confine myself to good 
 wishes, — no, — no ! I will speak of this honest and 
 distressed family ; I will speak of this fearful and last 
 blow which has overwhelmed it ; and do not doubt but 
 that the judges will have an additional motive to find 
 the accused innocent." 
 
 " Thanks, thanks, sir ! " said Rodolph ; " by acting thus 
 it will not be a mere duty that you fulfil, but a holy 
 office which you undertake." 
 
 " Believe me, sir, our duty is always such a painful 
 one that it is most grateful to us to be interested in any 
 thing which is worthy and good." 
 
 " One word more, sir. The disclosures of Louise 
 101 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 Morel have fully convinced me of her innocence. Will 
 you be so kind as inform me how her pretended crime 
 was discovered, or rather denounced ? " 
 
 " This morning," said the magistrate, " a housekeeper 
 in the service of M. Ferrand, the notary, came and 
 deposed before me that, after the hasty departure of 
 Louise Morel, whom she knew to be seven months 
 advanced in the family way, she went into the young 
 girl's apartment, and was convinced that she had been 
 prematurely confined ; footsteps had been traced in the 
 snow, which had led to the detection of the body of a 
 new-born child buried in the garden. After this declara- 
 tion I went myself to the Rue du Sentier, and found M. 
 Jacques Ferrand most indignant that such a scandalous 
 affair should have happened in his house. The cure* of 
 the church Bonne Nouvelle, whom he had sent for, also 
 declared to me that Louise Morel had owned her fault 
 in his presence one day, when, on this account, she was 
 imploring the indulgence and pity of her master ; that, 
 besides, he had often heard M. Ferrand give Louise 
 Morel the most serious warnings, telling her that, sooner 
 or later, she would be lost, — ' a prediction,' added the 
 abbe", 1 which has been unfortunately fulfilled.' The 
 indignation of M. Ferrand," continued the magistrate, 
 " seemed to me so just and natural, that I shared in it. 
 He told me that, no doubt, Louise Morel had taken 
 refuge with her father. I came hither instantly, for 
 the crime being flagrant, I was empowered to proceed 
 by immediate apprehension." 
 
 Rodolph with difficulty restrained himself when he 
 heard of the indignation of M. Ferrand, and said to 
 the magistrate : 
 
 " I thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness, 
 and the support you promise Louise. I will take care 
 that this poor man, as well as his wife's mother, are 
 sent to a lunatic asylum." 
 
 Then, addressing Louise, who was still kneeling close 
 102 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 to her father, endeavouring, but vainly, to recall him to 
 his senses : 
 
 " Make up your mind, my poor girl, to go without 
 taking leave of your mother, — spare her the pain of 
 such a parting. Be assured that she shall be taken care 
 of, and nothing shall in future be wanting to your family, 
 for a woman shall be found who will take care of your 
 mother and occupy herself with your brothers, and sis- 
 ters, under the superintendence of your kind neighbour, 
 Mile. Rigolette. As for your father, nothing shall be 
 spared to make his return to reason as rapid as it is 
 complete. Courage ! Believe me, honest people are often 
 severely tried by misfortune, but they always come out 
 of these struggles more pure, more strong, and more 
 respected.' 
 
 Two hours after the apprehension of Louise, the lapi- 
 dary and the old idiot mother were, by Rodolph's orders, 
 taken to the Bicetre by David, where they were to be 
 kept in private rooms and to receive particular care. 
 Morel left the house in the Rue du Temple without 
 resistance ; indifferent as he was, he went wherever they 
 led him, — his lunacy was gentle, inoffensive, and mel- 
 ancholy . The grandmother was hungry, and when they 
 showed her bread and meat she followed the bread and 
 meat. The jewels of the lapidary, entrusted to his wife, 
 were the same day given to Madame Mathieu (the jewel- 
 matcher), who fetched them. Unfortunately she was 
 watched and followed by Tortillard, who knew the 
 value of the pretended false stones in consequence of 
 the conversation he had overheard during the time 
 Morel was arrested by the bailiffs. The son of Bras 
 Rouge discovered that she lived, Boulevard Saint-Denis, 
 No. 11. 
 
 Rigolette apprised Madeleine Morel, with considerable 
 delicacy, of the -fit of lunacy which had attacked the 
 lapidary, and of Louise's imprisonment. At first, Made- 
 103 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 leine wept bitterly, and uttered terrible shrieks ; then, 
 the first burst of her grief over, the poor creature, weak 
 and overcome, consoled herself well as she could by 
 seeing that she and her children jre surrounded by the 
 many comforts which she owed * ) the generosity .of their 
 benefactor. 
 
 As to Rodolph, his thoughts were very poignant when 
 he considered the disclosures of Louise. " Nothing is 
 more common," he said, " than this corrupting of the 
 female servant by the master, either by consent or 
 against it ; sometimes by terror and surprise, sometimes 
 by the imperious nature of those relations which create 
 servitude. This depravity, descending from the rich to 
 the poor, despising (in its selfish desire) the sanctity of 
 the domestic hearth, — this depravity, still most deplor- 
 able when it is voluntarily submitted to, becomes hid- 
 eous, frightful, when it is satisfied with violence. It is 
 an impure and brutal slavery, an ignoble and barbarous 
 tyranny over a fellow-creature, who in her fright replies 
 to the solicitations of her master by her tears, and to 
 his declarations with a shudder of fear and disgust. 
 And then," continued Rodolph, " what is the consequence 
 to the female ? Almost invariably there follow degrada- 
 tion, misery, prostitution, theft, and sometimes infanti- 
 cide ! And yet the laws are, as yet, strangers to this 
 crime ! Every accomplice of a crime has the punish- 
 ment of that crime ; every receiver is considered as 
 guilty as the thief. That is justice. But when a man 
 wantonly seduces a young, innocent, and pure girl, ren- 
 ders her a mother, abandons her, leaving her but shame, 
 disgrace, despair, and driving her, perchance, to infanti- 
 cide, a crime for which she forfeits her life, is this man 
 considered as her accomplice ? Pooh ! What, then, fol- 
 lows ? Oh, 'tis nothing, — nothing but a little love-affair ! 
 the whim of the day for a pair of bright eyes. Then 
 she is left, and he looks out for the next. Still more, it 
 is just possible that the man may be of an original, an 
 104 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 inquisitive turn, perhaps, at the same time, an excellent 
 brother and son, and may go to the bar of the criminal 
 court and see his p? amour tried for her life ! If by- 
 chance he should bi subpoenaed as a witness, he may 
 amuse himself by say ag to the persons desirous of hav- 
 ing the poor girl executed as soon as possible, for the 
 greater edification of the public morals, 4 1 have some- 
 thing important to disclose to justice.' ' Speak ! ' ' Gentle- 
 men of the jury, — This unhappy female was pure and 
 virtuous, it is true. I seduced her, — that is equally true ; 
 she bore me a child, — that is also true. After that, as 
 she has a light complexion, I completely forsook her for 
 a pretty brunette, — that is still more true ; but, in doing 
 so, I have only followed out an imprescriptible right, a 
 sacred right which society recognizes and accords to me.' 
 ' The truth is, this young man is perfectly in the right,' 
 the jury would say one to another ; 4 there is no law 
 which prevents a young man from seducing a fair girl, 
 and then forsaking her for a brunette ; he is a gay young 
 chap, and that's all.' < Now, gentlemen of the jury, this 
 unhappy girl is said to have killed her child, — I will say 
 our child, — because I abandoned her ; because, finding 
 herseF alone and in the deepest misery, she became 
 frightened, and lost her senses ! And wherefore ? Be- 
 cause having, as she says, to bring up and feed her child, 
 it was impossible that she could continue to work regu- 
 larly at her occupation, and gain a livelihood for herself 
 and this pledge of our love ! But I think these reasons 
 quite unworthy of consideration, allow me to say, gentle- 
 men of the jury. Could she not have gone to the Lying- 
 in Hospital, if there was room for her ? Could she not, 
 at the critical moment, have gone to the magistrate of 
 her district and made a declaration of her shame, so that 
 she might have had authority for placing her child in the 
 Enf ants Trouve"s ? In fact, could she not, whilst I was 
 playing billiards at the coffee-house, whilst awaiting my 
 other mistress, could she not have extricated herself 
 105 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 from this affair by some genteeler mode than this ? For, 
 gentlemen of the jury, I will admit that I consider this 
 way of disposing of the pledge of our loves as rather too 
 unceremonious and rude, under the idea of thus quietly 
 escaping all future care and trouble. What, is it enough 
 for a young girl to lose her character, brave contempt, 
 infamy, and have an illegitimate child ? No ; but she 
 must also educate the child, take care of it, bring it up, 
 give it a business, and make an honest man of it, if it 
 be a boy, like its father ; or an honest girl, who does not 
 turn wanton like her mother. For, really, maternity has 
 its sacred duties, and the wretches who trample them 
 under foot are unnatural mothers, who deserve an ex- 
 emplary and notable punishment; as a proof of which, 
 gentlemen of the jury, I beg you will unhesitatingly 
 hand over this miserable woman to the executioner, and 
 you will thus do your duty like independent, firm, and 
 enlightened citizens. Dixi ! 1 ' This gentleman looks 
 at the question in a very moral point of view,' will say 
 some hatmaker or retired furrier, who is foreman of the 
 jury ; ' he has done, i'faith, what we should all have done 
 in his place ; for the girl is very pretty, though rather 
 pallid in complexion. This gay spark, as the song says : 
 
 " 1 " Has kissed and has prattled with fifty fair maids, 
 And changed them as oft, do you see ; " 
 
 and there is no law against that. As to this unfortunate 
 girl, after all, it is her own fault ! Why did she not re- 
 pulse him ? Then she would not have committed a 
 crime, — a monstrous crime ! which really puts all soci- 
 ety to the blush.' And the hatter or the furrier would 
 be right, — perfectly right.. What is there to criminate 
 this gentleman ? Of what complicity, direct or indirect, 
 moral or material, can he be charged ? This lucky rogue 
 has seduced a pretty girl, and he it is who has brought 
 her there ; he does not deny it ; where is the law that 
 106 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 prevents or punishes him ? Society merely says : There 
 are gay young fellows abroad, — let the pretty girls be- 
 ware ! But if a poor wretch, through want or stupidity, 
 constraint, or ignorance of the laws which he cannot 
 read, buys knowingly a rag which has been stolen, he 
 will be sent to the galleys for twenty years as a receiver, 
 if such be the punishment for the theft itself. This is 
 logical, powerful reasoning, — ' Without receivers there 
 would be no thieves, without thieves there would be no 
 receivers.' No, no more pity, then — even less pity — 
 for him who excites to the evil than he who perpetrates 
 it. Let the smallest degree of complicity be visited with 
 terrible punishment ! Good ; there is in that a serious 
 and fertile thought, high and moral. We should bow be- 
 fore Society which had dictated such a law ; but we remem- 
 ber that this Society, so inexorable towards the smallest 
 complicity of crime' against things, is so framed that a 
 simple and ingenuous man, who should try to prove that 
 there is at least moral similarity, material complicity, 
 between the fickle seducer and the seduced and forsaken 
 girl, would be laughed at as a visionary. And if this 
 simple man were to assert that without a father there 
 would, in all probability, not be offspring, Society would 
 exclaim against the atrocity, — the folly ! And it would 
 be right, — quite right ; for, after all, this gay youth who 
 might say these fine things to the jury, however little he 
 might like tragic emotions, might yet go tranquilly to see 
 his mistress executed, — executed for child-murder, a 
 crime to which he was an accessory ; nay more, the 
 author, in consequence of his shameless abandonment ! 
 Does not this charming protection, granted to the male 
 portion of society for certain gay doings suggested by 
 the god of Love, show plainly that France still sacri- 
 fices to the Graces, and is still the most gallant nation 
 in the world ? " 
 
 107 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 JACQUES PEEK AND. 
 
 At the period when the events were passing which 
 we are now relating, at one end of the Rue du Sentier 
 a long old wall extended, covered with a coat of white- 
 wash, and the top garnished with a row of broken flint- 
 glass bottles ; this wall, bounding on one side the garden 
 of Jacques Ferrand, the notary, terminated with a corps 
 de logis facing the street, only one story high, with 
 garrets. Two large escutcheons of gilt copper, emblems 
 of the notarial residence, flanked the worm-eaten porte 
 cochere, of which the primitive colour was no longer to 
 be distinguished under the mud which covered it. This 
 entrance led to an open passage ; on the right was the 
 lodge of an old porter, almost deaf, who was to the body 
 of tailors what M. Pipelet was to the body of boot- 
 makers; on the left a stable, used as a cellar, wash- 
 house, woodhouse, and the establishment of a rising 
 colony of rabbits belonging to the porter, who was 
 dissipating the sorrows of a recent widowhood by bring- 
 ing up these domestic animals. Beside the lodge was 
 the opening of a twisting staircase, narrow and dark, 
 leading to the office, as was announced to the clients by 
 a hand painted black, whose forefinger was directed 
 towards these words, also painted in black upon the 
 wall, « The Office on the first floor." 
 
 On one side of a large paved court, overgrown with 
 grass, were empty stables ; on the other side, a rusty 
 iron gate, which shut in the garden ; at the bottom 
 108 
 
JACQUES FERRAND. 
 
 the pavilion, inhabited only by the notary. A flight of 
 eight or ten steps of disjointed stones, which were moss- 
 grown and time-worn, led to this square pavilion, con- 
 sisting of a kitchen and other underground offices, a 
 ground floor, a first floor, and the top rooms, in one of 
 which Louise had slept. The pavilion also appeared in 
 a state of great dilapidation. There were deep chinks 
 in the walls ; the window-frames and outside blinds, 
 once painted gray, had become almost black by time ; 
 the six windows on the first floor, looking out into the 
 courtyard, had no curtains ; a sort of greasy and opaque 
 deposit covered the glass; on the ground floor there 
 were visible through the window-panes more trans- 
 parent, faded yellow cotton curtains, with red bindings. 
 
 On the garden side the pavilion had only four win- 
 dows. The garden, overgrown with parasitical plants, 
 seemed wholly neglected. There was no flower border, 
 not a bush ; a clump of elms ; five or six large green 
 trees ; some acacias and elder-trees ; a yellowish grass- 
 plat, half destroyed by moss and the scorch of the sun ; 
 muddy paths, choked up with weeds ; at the bottom, a 
 sort of half cellar ; for horizon, the high, naked, gray 
 walls of the adjacent houses, having here and there 
 skylights barred like prison windows, — such was the 
 miserable appearance of the garden and dwelling of 
 the notary. 
 
 To this appearance, or rather reality, M. Ferrand 
 attached great importance. In the eyes of the vulgar, 
 carelessness about comfort almost always passes for 
 disinterestedness ; dirt, for austerity. Comparing the 
 vast financial luxury of some notaries, or the costly 
 toilets of their wives, to the dull abode of M. Ferrand, 
 so opposed to elegance, expense, or splendour, clients 
 felt a sort of respect for, or rather blind confidence in, a 
 man who, according to his large practice and the fortune 
 attributed to him, could say, like many of his profes- 
 sional brethren, my carriage, my evening party, my 
 109 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 country-house, my box at the opera, etc. But, far 
 from this, Jacques Ferrand lived with rigid economy ; 
 and thus deposits, investments, powers of attorney, in 
 fact, all matters of trust and business requiring the most 
 scrupulous and recognised integrity, accumulated in his 
 hands. 
 
 Living thus meanly as he did, the notary lived in 'the 
 way he liked. He detested the world, show, dearly 
 purchased pleasures ; and, even had it been otherwise, 
 he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed his dearest 
 inclinations to the appearances which he found it so 
 profitable to assume. 
 
 A word or two on the character of the man. He 
 was one of the children of the large family of misers. 
 Misers -are generally exhibited in a ridiculous and whim- 
 sical light ; the worst do not go beyond egotism or 
 harshness. The greater portion increase their fortune 
 by continually investing ; some (they are but few) lend 
 at thirty per cent.; the most decided hardly venture any 
 risk with their means ; but it is almost an unheard-of 
 thing for a miser to proceed to crime, even murder, in 
 the acquisition of fresh wealth. 
 
 That is easily accounted for ; avarice is especially a 
 negative passion. The miser, in his incessant calcula- 
 tions, thinks more of becoming richer by not disbursing ; 
 in tightening around him, more and more, the limits of 
 strict necessity, than he does of enriching himself at the 
 cost of another ; he is especially the martyr to preserva- 
 tion. Weak, timid, cunning, distrustful, and, above all, 
 prudent and circumspect, never offensive, indifferent to 
 the ills of his neighbour, — the miser at least never 
 alludes to these ills, — he is, before all and above all, the 
 man of certainty and surety ; or, rather, he is only a 
 miser because he believes only in the substantial, the 
 hard gold which he has locked up in his chest. Specu- 
 lations and loans, on even undoubted security, tempt him 
 but little, for, how improbable soever it may be, they 
 110 
 
JACQUES FERRAND. 
 
 always offer a chance of loss, and he prefers rather to 
 ^lose the interest of his money than expose his capital. 
 A man so timorous will, therefore, seldom have the 
 savage energy of the wretch who risks the galleys or 
 his neck to lay hands on the wealth of another. 
 
 Risk is a word erased from the vocabulary of the 
 miser. It is in this sense that Jacques Ferrand was, let 
 us say, a very singular exception, perhaps a new variety 
 of the genus Miser ; for Jacques Ferrand did risk, and a 
 great deal. He relied on his craft, which was excessive ; 
 on his hypocrisy, which was unbounded ; on his intellect, 
 which was elastic and fertile ; on his boldness, which 
 was devilish, in assuring him impunity for his crimes, 
 and they were already numerous. 
 
 Jacques Ferrand was a twofold exception. Usually 
 these adventurous, energetic spirits, which do not recoil 
 before any crime that will procure gold, are beset by 
 turbulent passions — gaming, dissipation, gluttony, or 
 other pleasures. Jacques Ferrand knew none of these 
 violent and stormy desires ; cunning and patient as a 
 forger, sruel and resolute as an assassin, he was as sober 
 and regular as Harpagon. One passion alone was active 
 within him, and this we have seen too fatally exhibited 
 in his early conduct to Louise. The loan of thirteen 
 hundred francs to Morel at high interest was, in 
 Ferrand's hands, a snare — a means of oppression and 
 a source of profit. Sure of the lapidary's honesty, he 
 was certain of being repaid in full some day or other. 
 Still Louise's beauty must have made a deep impression 
 on him to have made him lay out of a sum of money 
 so advantageously placed. 
 
 Except this weakness, Jacques Ferrand loved gold 
 only. He loved gold for gold's sake ; not for the enjoy- 
 ments it procured, — he was a stoic ; not for the enjoy- 
 ments it might procure, — he was not sufficiently poetical 
 to enjoy speculatively, like some misers. With regard to 
 what belonged to himself, he loved possession for posses- 
 111 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 sion's sake ; with regard to what belonged to others, if 
 it concerned a large deposit, for instance, liberally con- 
 fided to his probity only, he experienced in returning 
 this deposit the same agony, the same despair, as the 
 goldsmith, Cardillac, did in separating himself from a 
 casket of jewels which his own exquisite taste had fash- 
 ioned into a chef-d'oeuvre of art. With the notary, his 
 character for extreme probity was his chef-d'oeuvre of 
 art ; a deposit was to him a jewel, which he could not 
 surrender but with poignant regrets. What care, what 
 cunning, what stratagems, what skill, in a word, what 
 art, did he use to attract this sum into his own strong 
 box, still maintaining that extreme character for honour, 
 which was beset with the most precious marks of con- 
 fidence, like the pearls and diamonds in the golden 
 diadems of Cardillac. The more this celebrated gold- 
 smith approached perfection, they say, the more value 
 did he attach to his ornaments, always considering the 
 last as his chef-d'oeuvre, and being utterly distressed at 
 giving it up. The more Jacques Ferrand grew perfect 
 in crime, the more he clung to the open and constant 
 marks of confidence which were showered upon him, 
 always considering his last deceit as his chef-d'oeuvre. 
 
 We shall see in the sequel of this history that, by the 
 aid of certain means really prodigious in plan and carry- 
 ing out, he contrived to appropriate to himself, with 
 impunity, several very considerable sums. His secret 
 and mysterious life gave him incessant and terrible 
 emotions, such as gaming gives to the gambler. Against 
 all other men's fortunes Jacques Ferrand staked his 
 hypocrisy, his boldness, his head ; and he played on 
 velvet, as it is called, far out of the reach of human 
 justice, which he vulgarly and energetically characterised 
 as a chimney which might fall on one's head ; for him 
 to lose was only not to gain ; and, moreover, he was 
 so criminally gifted that, in his bitter irony, he saw a 
 continued gain in boundless esteem, the unlimited con- 
 112 
 
JACQUES FERRAND. 
 
 fidence which he inspired, not only in a multitude of 
 rich clients, but also in the smaller tradespeople and 
 workmen of his district. A great many of these placed 
 their money with him, saying, " He is not charitable, it 
 is true; he is a devotee, and that's a pity; but he is 
 much safer than the government or the savings-banks." 
 In spite of his uncommon ability, this man had com- 
 mitted two of those mistakes from which the most 
 skilful rogues do not always escape ; forced by circum- 
 stances, it is true, he had associated with himself two 
 accomplices. This immense fault, as he called it, had 
 been in part repaired ; neither of his two associates 
 could destroy him without destroying themselves, and 
 neither would have reaped from denunciation any other 
 profit but of drawing down justice on themselves as well 
 as on the notary; on this score he was quite easy. 
 Besides, he was not at the end of his crimes, and the 
 disadvantages of accompliceship were balanced by the 
 criminal aid which at times he still obtained. 
 
 A few words as to the personal appearance of M. 
 Ferrand, and we will introduce the reader into the 
 notary's study, where we shall encounter some of 
 the principal personages in this recital. 
 
 M. Ferrand was fifty years of age, but did not appear 
 forty ; he was of middle height, with broad and stooping 
 shoulders, powerful, thickset, strong-limbed, red-haired, 
 and naturally as hirsute as a bear. His hair was flat 
 on his temples, his forehead bald, his eyebrows scarcely 
 perceptible ; his bilious complexion was almost concealed 
 by innumerable red spots, and, when strong emotion 
 agitated him, his yellow and murky countenance was 
 injected with blood, and became a livid red. His face 
 was as flat as a death's head, as is vulgarly said ; his 
 nose thick and flat ; his lips so thin, so imperceptible, 
 that his mouth seemed incised in his face, and, when he 
 smiled with his villainous and revolting air, his teeth 
 seemed as though supplied by black and rotten fangs. 
 113 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 His pallid face had an expression at once austere and 
 devout, impassible and inflexible, cold and reflective ; 
 whilst his small, black, animated, peering, and restless 
 eyes were lost behind large green spectacles. 
 
 Jacques Ferrand saw admirably well ; but, sheltered 
 by his glasses, he had an immense advantage ; he could 
 observe without being observed ; and well he knew how 
 often a glance is unwittingly full of meaning. In spite 
 of his imperturbable audacity, he had met twice or 
 thrice in his life certain potent and magnetic looks, 
 before which his own had compulsorily been lowered ; 
 and in some important circumstances it is fatal to lower 
 the eyes before the man who interrogates, accuses, or 
 judges you. The large spectacles of M. Ferrand were 
 thus a kind of covert retrenchment, whence he could 
 reconnoitre and observe every movement of the enemy ; 
 and all the world was the notary's enemy, because all 
 the world was, more or less, his dupe ; and accusers are 
 but enlightened or disgusted dupes. He affected a neg- 
 ligence in his dress almost amounting to dirtiness, or 
 rather, he was naturally so ; his chin shaven only every 
 two or three days, his grimy and wrinkled head, his 
 broad nails encircled in black, his unpleasant odour, 
 his threadbare coat, his greasy hat, his coarse neckcloth, 
 his black-worsted stockings, his clumsy shoes, all curi- 
 ously betokened his worthiness with his clients, by 
 giving him an air of disregard of the world, and an 
 air of practical philosophy, which delighted them. 
 
 They said : " What tastes, what passions, what feel- 
 ings, what weaknesses, must the notary sacrifice to 
 obtain the confidence he inspires ! He gains, perhaps, 
 sixty thousand francs (2,4002) a year, and his household 
 consists of a servant and an old housekeeper. His only 
 pleasure is to go on Sundays to mass and vespers, and 
 he knows no opera comparable to the grave chanting of 
 the organ, no worldly society which is worth an evening 
 quietly passed at his fireside corner with the cure* of the 
 
JACQUES FERRAND. 
 
 parish after a frugal dinner ; in fine, he places his enjoy- 
 ment »in probity, his pride in honour, his happiness in 
 religion." 
 
 Such was the opinion of the contemporaries of M. 
 Jacques Ferrand. 
 
 115 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE OFFICE. 
 
 The office of M. Ferrand resembled all other offices, 
 and his clerks all other clerks. It was approached 
 through an antechamber, furnished with four old chairs. 
 In the office, properly so-called, surrounded by rows of 
 shelves, ornamented with pasteboard boxes, containing 
 the papers of the clients of M. Ferrand, five young men, 
 stooping over black wooden desks, were laughing, gos- 
 siping, or scribbling perpetually. A waiting-room, also 
 filled with pasteboard boxes, and in which the chief 
 clerk was constantly stationed, and another room, which, 
 for greater secrecy, was kept unoccupied, between the 
 notary's private room and the waiting-room, completed 
 the total of this laboratory of deeds of every description. 
 
 An old cuckoo-clock, placed between the two windows 
 of the office, had just struck two o'clock, and a certain 
 bustle prevailed amongst the clerks ; a part of their con- 
 versation will inform the reader as to the cause of this 
 excitement. 
 
 " Well, if any one had told me that Francois Germain 
 was a thief," said one of the young men, " I should have 
 said, * That's a lie ! "' 
 
 « So should I." 
 
 "And I." 
 
 " And I. It really quite affected me to see him arrested 
 and led away by the police. I could not eat any break- 
 fast ; but I have been rewarded by not having to eat the 
 116 
 
THE OFFICE. 
 
 daily mess doled out by Mother Se*raphin, for, as the 
 song goes: 
 
 1 To eat the allowance of old Seraphin, 
 One must have a twist indeed.' " 
 
 "Capital! why, Chalamel, you are beginning your 
 poetry already." 
 
 « I demand Chalamel's head ! " 
 
 " Folly apart, it is very terrible for poor Germain." 
 
 " Seventeen thousand francs (680Z.) is a lump of 
 money ! " 
 
 " I believe you ! " 
 
 "And yet, for the fifteen months that Germain has 
 been cashier, he was never a farthing deficient in making 
 up his books." 
 
 " I think the governor was wrong to arrest Germain, 
 for the poor fellow swore that he had only taken thirteen 
 hundred francs (52Z.) in gold, and that, moreover, he 
 brought back the thirteen hundred francs this morning, 
 to return them to the money-chest, at the very moment 
 when our master sent for the police." 
 
 " Ah, that's the bore of people of such ferocious 
 honesty as our governor, they have no pity ! " 
 
 " But they ought to think twice before they ruin a 
 poor young fellow, who, up to this time, has behaved 
 with strict honesty." 
 
 " M. Ferrand said he did it for an example." 
 
 " Example ? What ? It is none to the honest, and 
 the dishonest know well enough what they expose them- 
 selves to if they are found out in any delinquencies." 
 
 " Our house seems to produce lots of jobs for the 
 police officers." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, this morning there was poor little Louise, and 
 now poor Germain." 
 
 " I confess that Germain's affair was not quite clear 
 to me." 
 
 117 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " But he confessed ? " 
 
 " He confessed that he had taken thirteen hundred 
 francs, certainly ; but he declared most vehemently that 
 he had not taken the other fifteen thousand francs in 
 bank-notes, and the other seven hundred francs which 
 are short in the strong box." 
 
 " True ; and, if he confessed one thing, why shouldn't 
 he confess another ? " 
 
 " Exactly so ; for a man is as much punished for five 
 hundred francs as he is for fifteen thousand francs." 
 
 " Yes ; only they retain the fifteen thousand francs, 
 and, when they leave prison, this forms a little fund to 
 start upon ; and, as the swan of Cambrai sings : 
 
 ' To get a jolly lot of " swag " 
 A cove must dip deep in the lucky-bag.' " 
 
 " I demand Chalamel's head ! " 
 
 " Can't you talk sense for five minutes ? " 
 
 " Ah, here's Jabulot ! won't he be astonished ? " 
 
 " What at, my boys ? what at ? Anything fresh about 
 poor Louise ? " 
 
 " You would have known, roving blade, if you had not 
 been so long in your rounds." 
 
 " What, you think it is but a step from here to the 
 Rue de Chaillot?" 
 
 " I never said so." 
 
 "Well, what about that gallant don, the famous 
 Viscount de Saint-R6my ? " 
 " Has he not been here yet ? " 
 « No." 
 
 "Well, his horses were harnessed, and he sent me 
 word by his valet de chambre, that he would come here 
 directly. But he didn't seem best pleased, the servant 
 said. Oh, my boys ! such a lovely little house, furnished 
 most magnificently, like one of the dwellings of the 
 olden time that Faublas writes about. Oh, Faublas ! he 
 118 
 
THE OFFICE. 
 
 is my heco — my model ! " said the clerk, putting down 
 his umbrella and taking off his clogs. 
 
 " You are right, Jabulot ; for, as that sublime old blind 
 man, Homer, said : 
 
 < Faublas, that amorous hero, it is said, 
 Forsook the duchess for the waiting-maid.' " 
 
 " Yes ; but then, she was a theatrical ' waiting-maid,' 
 my lads." 
 
 " I demand Chalamel's head ! " 
 
 " But about this Viscount de Saint-Rdmy ? Jabulot 
 says his mansion is superb." 
 " Pyramidic ! " 
 
 "Then, I'll be bound, he has debts not a few, and 
 arrests to match, this viscount." 
 
 « A bill of thirty-four thousand francs (1,360?.) has 
 been sent here by the officer. It is made payable at the 
 office. This is his creditors' doing ; I don't know why 
 or wherefore." 
 
 " Well, I should say that this dandy viscount would 
 pay now, because he came from the country last night, 
 where he has been concealed these three days, in order 
 to escape from the bailiffs." 
 
 " How is it, then, that they have not seized the furni- 
 ture already ? " 
 
 u Why ? oh, he's too cunning ! The house is not his 
 own ; all the furniture is in the name of his valet de 
 chambre, who is said to let it to him furnished ; and, in the 
 same way, his horses and carriages are in his coachman's 
 name, who declares that he lets to the viscount his 
 splendid turn-out at so much a month. Ah, he's a 
 ' downy ' one, is M. de Saint-Remy ! But what were 
 you going to tell me ? what has happened here fresh ? " 
 
 a Why, imagine the governor coming in here two hours 
 ago in a most awful passion. ' Germain is not here ? ' 
 he exclaimed. i No, sir.' ' Well, the rascal has robbed 
 119 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 me last night of seventeen thousand francs ! ' says the 
 governor." 
 
 " Germain — rob — ah, come, that's 4 no go ! ' " 
 " You will hear. ' What, sir, are you sure ? but it 
 cannot be,' we all cried out. 4 I tell you, gentlemen,' 
 said the governor, 4 that yesterday I put in the drawer 
 of the bureau at which he writes, fifteen notes of one 
 thousand francs each, and two thousand francs in gold, 
 in a little box, and it is all gone.' At this moment old 
 Marriton, the porter, came in, and he said, 4 Sir, the 
 police are coming ; where is Germain ? ' 4 Wait a bit,' 
 said the governor to the porter ; 4 as soon as M. Germain 
 returns, send him into the office, without saying a word. 
 I will confront him before you all, gentlemen,' said the 
 governor. At the end of a quarter of an hour in comes 
 poor Germain, as if nothing had happened. Old Mother 
 Seraphin had brought in our morning mess. Germain 
 made his bow to the governor, and wished us all ' good 
 morning,' as usual. ' Germain, don't you take your 
 breakfast ? ' inquired M. Ferrand. 4 No, thank you, sir, 
 I am not hungry.' ' You're very late this morning.' 
 4 Yes, sir ; I was obliged to go to Belleville this morning.' 
 4 No doubt to hide the money you have stolen from me ! ' 
 M. Ferrand said, in a terrible voice." 
 44 And Germain ? " 
 
 44 The poor fellow turned as pale as death, and stam- 
 mered out, 4 Pray — pray, sir, do not ruin me — 
 44 What ! he had stolen — " 
 
 44 Listen, Jabulot : 4 Do not ruin me,' says he to the 
 governor. 4 What ! you confess it, then, you villain ? ' 
 4 Yes, sir ; but here is the money ; I thought I could 
 replace it before you came into the office this morning ; 
 but, unfortunately, a person who had a small sum of 
 mine, and whom I expected to find at home last night, 
 had been at Belleville these two days, and I was com- 
 pelled to go there this morning; that made me late. 
 Pray, sir, forgive me, — do not destroy me ! When I 
 120 
 
THE OFFICE. 
 
 took the money I knew I could return it this morning ; 
 and here are the thirteen hundred francs in gold.' 
 « What do you mean by thirteen hundred francs ? ' ex- 
 claimed M. Ferrand ; ' what's the use of talking of 
 thirteen hundred francs ? You have stolen, from the 
 bureau in my room, fifteen thousand francs that were in 
 a green pocket-book, and two thousand francs in gold.' 
 1 1 ? Never ! ' cried poor Germain, quite aghast. ' I 
 took thirteen hundred francs in gold, but not a farthing 
 more. I did not even see the pocket-book in the drawer ; 
 there were only two thousand francs, in gold, in a box.' 
 1 Oh, shameless liar ! ' cried the governor ; ' you confess 
 to having plundered thirteen hundred francs, and may 
 just as well have stolen more ; that will be for the law 
 to decide. I shall be without mercy for such an infa- 
 mous breach of trust; you shall be an example.' In 
 fact, my dear Jabulot, the police came in at that 
 moment, with the commissary's chief clerk, to draw 
 up the depositions, and they laid hands on poor 
 Germain ; and that's all about it." 
 
 " Really, you do surprise me ! I feel as if some one 
 had given me a thump on the head. Germain — Ger- 
 main, who seemed such an honest fellow, — a chap 
 to whom one would have given absolution without 
 confession." 
 
 " I should say that he had some presentiment of his 
 misfortune." 
 « How?" 
 
 " For some days past he seemed to have something on 
 his mind." 
 
 " Perhaps about Louise." 
 " Louise ? " 
 
 " Why, I only repeat what Mother Se*raphin said this 
 morning." 
 
 " What did she say ? " 
 
 " What ? that he was Louise's lover, and the father of 
 her child." 
 
 121 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Sly dog ! Do you think so ? " 
 
 " Why — why — why — " 
 
 « Pooh ! pooh ! " 
 
 " That's not the case." 
 
 " How do you know, Master Jabulot ? " 
 
 " Because it is not a fortnight ago that Germain told 
 me, in confidence, that he was over head and ears in 
 love with a little needle-woman, a very correct lass, 
 whom he had known in the house where he lived ; and, 
 when he talked of her, the tears came in his eyes." 
 
 " Why, Jabulot, you are getting quite poetical." 
 
 " He says Paublas is his hero, and he is not 4 wide 
 awake ' enough to know that a man may be in love with 
 one woman and a lover of another at the same time ; 
 for, as the tender F6nelon says, in his Instructions to 
 the Duke of Burgundy ' : 
 
 A spicy blade, of the right cock-feather, 
 May love a blonde and brunette together.' " 
 
 " I demand Chalamel's head ! " 
 
 " I tell you that Germain spoke in earnest." 
 
 At this moment the head clerk entered the office. 
 
 " Well, M. Jabulot," said he, " have you completed 
 your rounds ? " 
 
 " Yes, M. Dubois ; I have been to M. de Saint-Remy, 
 and he will come and pay immediately." 
 
 il And as to the Countess Macgregor ? " 
 
 " Here is her answer." 
 
 " And the Countess d'Orbigny ? " 
 
 " She returns her compliments to our employer. She 
 only arrived from Normandy yesterday morning, and did 
 not know that her reply was required so soon ; here is 
 a note from her. I also called on the Marquis d'Har- 
 ville's steward, as he desired me to receive the money 
 for drawing up the contract which I witnessed at their 
 house the other day." 
 
 122 
 
THE OFFICE. 
 
 " You'should have told him there was no hurry." 
 
 " I did, but the steward insisted on paying. Here is 
 the money. Oh ! I had almost forgotten to say, M. 
 Badinot said that M. Ferrand had better do as they 
 had agreed ; it was the best thing to do." 
 
 " He did not write an answer ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; he said he had not time." 
 
 « Very well." 
 
 " M. Charles Robert will come in the course of the 
 morning to speak to our master. It seems that he 
 fought a duel yesterday with the Duke de Lucenay." 
 
 " And is he wounded ? " 
 
 " I think not, or else they would have told me so at 
 the house." 
 
 " Hark ! there's a carriage stopping at the door." 
 " Oh, what fine horses ! how full of spirits they 
 are ! " 
 
 " And that fat English coachman, with his white wig, 
 and brown livery striped with silver, and his epaulettes 
 like a colonel ! " 
 
 " It must be some ambassador's." 
 
 " And the chasseur, look how he is bedizened all over 
 with silver ! " 
 
 " And what moustachios ! " 
 
 " Oh," said Jabulot, " it is the Viscount de Saint-Remy's 
 carriage ! " 
 
 " What ! is that the way he does it ? Oh, my ! " 
 Soon after the Viscount de Saint-Remy entered the 
 office. 
 
 We have already described the handsome appearance, 
 elegance of style, and aristocratical demeanour of M. de 
 Saint-Remy, when he was on his way to the farm of 
 Arnouville (the estate of Madame de Lucenay), where 
 he had found a retreat from the pursuit of the bailiffs, 
 Malicorne and Bourdin. The viscount, who entered 
 unceremoniously into the office, with his hat on his 
 head, a haughty and disdainful look, and his eyes half 
 123 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 closed, asked, with an air of extreme superciliousness, 
 and without looking at anybody: 
 " Where is the notary ? " 
 
 " M. Ferrand is engaged in his private room," said the 
 chief clerk. " If you will please to wait a moment, sir, he 
 will see you." 
 
 " What do you mean by wait a moment ? " 
 
 " Why, sir — " 
 
 " There is no why in the case, sir. Go and tell him 
 that M. de Saint-Remy is here ; and I am much surprised 
 that this notary should make me dance attendance in his 
 waiting-room. It is really most annoying." 
 
 "Will you walk into this side room, sir?" said the 
 chief clerk, " and I will inform M. Ferrand this instant." 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy shrugged his shoulders, and followed 
 the head clerk. At the end of a quarter of an hour, 
 which seemed very tedious to him, and which converted 
 his spleen into anger, the viscount was introduced into 
 the notary's private apartment. 
 
 Nothing could be more striking than the contrast 
 between these two men, both of them profound physiog- 
 nomists, and habituated to judge at a glance of the per- 
 sons with whom they had business. M. de Saint-Remy 
 saw Jacques Ferrand for the first time, and was struck 
 with the expression of his pallid, harsh, and impassive 
 features, — the look concealed by the large green spec- 
 tacles ; the skull half hid beneath an old black silk cap. 
 The notary was seated at his writing-desk, in a leathern 
 armchair, beside a low fireplace, almost choked up with 
 ashes, and in which were two black and smoking logs of 
 wood. Curtains of green cotton, almost in rags, hung 
 on small iron rings at the windows, and, concealing the 
 lower window-panes, threw over the room, which was 
 naturally dark, a livid and unpleasant hue. Shelves of 
 black wood were filled with deed-boxes, all duly labelled. 
 Some cherry-wood chairs, covered with threadbare Utrecht 
 velvet ; a clock in a mahogany case ; a floor yellow, damp, 
 121 
 
THE OFFICE. 
 
 and chilling ; a ceiling full of cracks, and festooned with 
 spiders' webs, — such was the sanctum sanctorum of M. 
 Jacques Ferrand. Hardly had the viscount made two 
 steps into his cabinet, or spoken a word, than the notary, 
 who knew him by reputation, conceived an intense antip- 
 athy towards him. In the first place, he saw in him, if 
 we may say so, a rival in rogueries ; and then he hated 
 elegance, grace, and youth in other persons, and more 
 especially when these advantages were attended with an 
 air of insolent superiority. The notary usually assumed 
 a tone of rude and almost coarse abruptness with his 
 clients, who liked him the better for being in behaviour 
 like a boor of the Danube. He made up his mind to 
 double this brutality towards M. de Saint-Henry, who, only 
 knowing the notary by report also, expected to find an 
 attorney either familiar or a fool ; for the viscount 
 always imagined men of such probity as M. Ferrand 
 had the reputation for, as having an exterior almost 
 ridiculous, but, so far from this, the countenance and 
 appearance of the attorney at law struck the viscount 
 with an undefinable feeling, — half fear, half aversion. 
 Consequently, his own resolute character made M. de 
 Saint-Remy increase his usual impertinence and effrontery. 
 The notary kept his cap on his head, and the viscount 
 did not doff his hat, but exclaimed, as he entered the 
 room, with a loud and imperative tone : 
 
 " Pardieu, sir ! it is very strange that you should give 
 me the trouble to come here, instead of sending to my 
 house for the money for the bills I accepted from the man 
 Badinot, and for which the fellow has issued execution 
 against me. It is true you tell me that you have also 
 another very important communication to make to me ; 
 but then, surely, that is no excuse for making me wait 
 for half an hour in your antechamber : it is really most 
 annoying, sir ! " 
 
 M. Ferrand, quite unmoved, finished a calculation he 
 was engaged in, wiped his pen methodically in a moist 
 125 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 sponge which encircled his inkstand of cracked earthen- 
 ware, and raised towards the viscount his icy, earthy, 
 flat face, shaded by his spectacles. He looked like a 
 death's head in which the eye-holes had been replaced 
 by large, fixed, staring green eyeballs. After having 
 looked at the viscount for a moment or two, the notary 
 said to him, in a harsh and abrupt tone : 
 
 " Where's the money ? " 
 
 This coolness exasperated M. de Saint-Re'my. 
 
 He — he, the idol of the women, the envy of the men, 
 the model of the first society in Paris, the dreaded duel- 
 list — produced no effect on a wretched attorney-at-law ! 
 It was horrid ; and, although he was only tSte-d-tete with 
 Jacques Ferrand, his pride revolted. 
 
 " Where are the bills ? " inquired the viscount, abruptly. 
 
 With the point of one of his fingers, as hard as iron, 
 and covered with red hair, the notary rapped on a large 
 leathern pocket-book which lay close beside him. Re- 
 solved on being as laconic, although trembling with rage, 
 M. de Saint-Remy took from the pocket of his upper 
 coat a Russian leather pocket-book, with gold clasps, from 
 which he drew forth forty notes of a thousand francs 
 each, and showed them to the notary. 
 
 " How many are there ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Forty thousand francs." 
 
 " Hand them to me ! ' 
 
 " Take them ! and let this have a speedy termination. 
 Ply your trade, pay yourself, and give me the bills," said 
 the viscount, as he threw the notes on the table, with an 
 impatient air. 
 
 The notary took up the bank-notes, rose, went close 
 to the window to examine them, turning and re-turning 
 them over and over, one by one, with an attention so 
 scrupulous, and really so insulting for M. de Saint-R^my, 
 that the viscount actually turned pale with rage. J acques 
 Ferrand, as if he had guessed the thoughts which were 
 passing in the viscount's mind, shook his head, turned 
 126 
 
THE OFFICE. 
 
 half towards him, and said to him, with an indefinable 
 accent : 
 
 " I have seen — " 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy, confused for a moment, said, drily : 
 "What?" 
 
 "Forged bank-notes," replied the notary, continu- 
 ing his scrutiny of a note, which he had not yet ex- 
 amined. 
 
 " What do you mean by that remark, sir ? " 
 
 Jacques Ferrand paused for a moment, looked stead- 
 fastly at the viscount through his glasses, then, shrugging 
 his shoulders slightly, he continued to investigate the 
 notes, without uttering a syllable. 
 
 " Monsieur Notary ! I would wish you to learn that, 
 when I ask a question, I have an answer ! " cried M. de 
 Saint-Remy, exasperated at the coolness of Jacques 
 Ferrand. 
 
 " These notes are good," said the notary, turning 
 towards his bureau, whence he took a small bundle of 
 stamped papers, to which were annexed two bills of ex- 
 change ; then, putting down one of the bank-notes for 
 one thousand francs and three rouleaus, of one hundred 
 francs each, on the table, he said to M. de Saint-Remy, 
 pointing to the money and the bills with his finger : 
 
 " Here's your change out of the forty thousand francs ; 
 my client has desired me to deduct the expenses." 
 
 The viscount had contained himself with great diffi- 
 culty whilst Jacques Ferrand was making out the 
 account, and, instead of taking up the money, he ex- 
 claimed, in a voice that literally shook with passion : 
 
 " I beg to know, sir, what you meant by saying, whilst 
 you looked at the bank-notes which I handed to you, 
 that you ' had seen forged notes ? ' " 
 
 " What I meant?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Because I sent for you to come here on a matter of 
 forgery." 
 
 127 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARTS. 
 
 And the notary fixed his green spectacles on the 
 viscount. 
 
 " And how can this forgery in any way affect me ? " 
 
 After a moment's silence, M. Ferrand said to the 
 viscount, with a stern air : 
 
 "Are you aware, sir, of the duties which a notary 
 fulfils ? " 
 
 " Those duties appear to me, sir, very simple indeed ; 
 just now I had forty thousand francs, now I have 
 thirteen hundred francs left." 
 
 " You are facetious, sir ; I will tell you that a notary 
 is, in temporal matters, what a confessor is in spiritual 
 affairs; by virtue of his position, he often becomes 
 possessed of disgraceful secrets." 
 
 " Go on, I beg, sir." 
 
 " He is often brought into contact with rogues." 
 " Go on, sir." 
 
 "He ought, as well as he can, to prevent an hon- 
 ourable name from being dragged through the mud." 
 " What is all this to me?" 
 
 " Your father's name is deservedly respected ; you, 
 sir, dishonour it." 
 
 " How dare you, sir, to address such language 
 to me?" 
 
 " But for the interest which the gentleman, of whom 
 I speak, inspires in the minds of all honest men, instead 
 of being summoned before me, you would, at this 
 moment, be standing before a police-magistrate." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " Two months since, you discounted, through an 
 agent, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs (2,320Z.), 
 accepted by the house of Meulaert & Company, of 
 Hamburg, in favour of a certain William Smith, payable 
 in three months, at the bank of M. Grimaldi, of Paris." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " That bill was a forgery." 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 128 
 
THE OFFiCE. 
 
 " That bill was a forgery ! the firm of Meulaert never 
 gave such a bill to William Smith, and never had such a 
 transaction with such an individual." 
 
 " Can this be true ? " exclaimed M. de Saint-R6my, 
 with equal surprise and indignation ; " then I have been 
 most infamously deceived, sir, for I took the bill as 
 ready money." 
 
 " From whom ? " 
 
 " From M. William Smith himself ; the house of 
 Meulaert is so well known, and I was so firmly con- 
 vinced myself of the honour of M. William Smith, that 
 I took the bill in payment of a debt he owed me." 
 
 " William Smith never existed, — he is an imaginary 
 personage." 
 
 " Sir, you insult me ! " 
 
 " His signature is forged and false, as well as all the 
 rest of the bill." 
 
 " I assert that M. William Smith is alive ; but I must 
 have been the dupe of e, horrible abuse of confidence." 
 
 " Poor young man ! " 
 
 " Explain yourself, sir." 
 
 "The actual holder of the bill is convinced you 
 committed the forgery." 
 "Sir!" 
 
 " He declares that he has proof of this ; and he came 
 to me the day before yesterday, requesting me to see 
 you, and offer to give up this forged document, under 
 certain conditions. Up to this point all was straightfor- 
 ward, but what follows is not so, and I only speak to 
 you now according to my instructions. He requires one 
 hundred thousand francs (4,000Z.) down this very day, 
 or else to-morrow, at twelve o'clock at noon, the forged 
 bill will be handed over to the king's attorney-general." 
 
 " This is infamous, sir ! " 
 
 " It is more, — it is absurd. You are a ruined man ; 
 you were all but arrested for the sum which you have 
 just paid me, and which you have scraped up I cannot 
 129 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 tell from where ; and this I have told to the holder of 
 the bill, who replied, that a certain great and very- 
 rich lady would not allow you to remain in this 
 embarrassment." 
 
 " Enough, sir ! enough ! " 
 
 " More infamous ! more absurd ! agreed." 
 
 " Well, sir, and what is required of me ? " 
 
 " Why, to work out infamously an action infamously 
 commenced. I have consented to communicate this pro- 
 position to you, although it disgusts me, as an honest man 
 ought to feel disgust on such an occasion ; but now it 
 is your affair. If you are guilty, choose between a crim- 
 inal court and the means of ransom offered to you ; my 
 duty is only an official one, and I will not dirty my 
 fingers any further in so foul a transaction. The third 
 party is called M. Petit-Jean, an oil merchant, who lives 
 on the banks of the Seine, Quai de Billy, No. 10. Make 
 your arrangements with him ; you are fit to meet if you 
 are a forger, as he declares." 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy had entered Jacques Ferrand's 
 study with a lip all scorn, and a head all pride. 
 Although he had in his life committed some shame- 
 ful actions, he still retained a certain elevation of 
 race, and an instinctive courage, which had never for- 
 saken him. At the beginning of this conversation, 
 considering the notary as an adversary beneath him, 
 he had been content to treat him with disdain ; but, 
 when Jacques Ferrand began to talk of forgery, he felt 
 annihilated ; in his turn he felt himself rode over by 
 the notary. But for the entire command of self which 
 he possessed, he could not have concealed the terrible 
 impression which this unexpected revelation disclosed 
 to him, for it might have incalculable consequences to 
 him, — consequences unsuspected by the notary himself. 
 After a moment of silence and reflection, he resigned 
 himself, — he, so haughty, so irritable, so vain of his 
 self-possession ! — to beg of this coarse man, who had 
 130* 
 
THE OFFICE. 
 
 so roughly addressed to him the stern language of 
 probity : 
 
 " Sir, you give me a proof of your interest, for which 
 I thank you, and I regret that any hasty expressions 
 should have escaped me," said M. de Saint-Remy, with 
 a tone of cordiality. 
 
 " I do not take the slightest interest in or for you," 
 replied the notary, brutally. " Your father is the soul 
 of honour, and I would not wish that in the depth of 
 that solitude in which he lives, as they tell me, at 
 Angers, he should learn that his name has been exposed, 
 tarnished, degraded, in a court of justice, that's all." 
 
 " I repeat to you, sir, that I am incapable of the 
 infamy which is attributed to me." 
 
 " You may tell that to M. Petit- Jean." 
 
 " But I confess that, in the absence of M. Smith, who 
 has so unworthily abused my confidence, that — " 
 
 " The scoundrel Smith ! " 
 
 "The absence of M. Smith places me in a cruel em- 
 barrassment. I am innocent, — let them accuse me, I 
 will prove myself guiltless ; but such an accusation, even, 
 must always disgrace a gentleman." 
 
 « Well ? " 
 
 " Be so good as to use the sum I have just handed 
 fco you in part payment to the person who holds the 
 acceptance." 
 
 " That money belongs to a client and is sacred." 
 
 " In two or three days I will repay you." 
 
 " You will not be able." 
 
 " I have resources." 
 
 " You have none ; not visible at least. Your house- 
 hold furniture, your horses, do not belong to you, as you 
 declare ; this has to me the appearance of a disgraceful 
 fraud." 
 
 " You are severe, sir ; but, admitting what you say, do 
 you not suppose that I shall turn everything into money 
 in such a desperate extremity? Only, as it will be 
 131 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 impossible for me to procure, between this and noon to- 
 morrow, the one hundred thousand francs, I entreat you 
 to employ the money I have just handed to you in 
 procuring this unfortunate bill, or, at least, as you are 
 very rich, advance the money. Do not leave me in such 
 a position." 
 
 " Me ? Why, is the man mad ? " 
 
 " Sir, I beseech you, in my father's name, which you 
 have mentioned to me, be so kind as to — " 
 
 " I am kind to those who deserve it," said the notary, 
 harshly. " An honest man myself, I hate swindlers, and 
 should not be sorry to see one of those high-minded 
 gentlemen, without faith or honour, impious and repro- 
 bate, put in the pillory, as an example to others ; but I 
 hear your horses, who are impatient to depart, M. le 
 Vicomte," said the notary, with a smile that displayed 
 his black fangs. 
 
 At this moment some one knocked at the door of the 
 apartment. 
 
 " Who's there ? " inquired Jacques Ferrand. 
 " Madame the Countess d'Orbigny," said the chief 
 clerk. 
 
 " Request her to wait a moment." 
 
 "The stepmother of the Marchioness d'Harville?" 
 exclaimed M. de Saint-Remy. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; she has an appointment with me, — so, 
 your servant, sir." 
 
 " Not a word of this, sir ! " cried M. de Saint-Remy, 
 in a menacing voice. 
 
 "I told you, sir, that a notary is as discreet as a 
 confessor." 
 
 Jacques Ferrand rang, and the clerk appeared. 
 
 " Show Madame d'Orbigny in." Then, addressing 
 the viscount, " Take these thirteen hundred francs, sir ; 
 they will be something towards an arrangement with 
 M. Petit-Jean." 
 
 Madame d'Orbigny (formerly Madame Roland) en- 
 132 
 
THE OFFJCE. 
 
 tered at the moment when M. de Saint-Remy went out, 
 his features convulsed with rage at having so uselessly 
 humiliated himself before the notary. 
 
 " Ah, good day, M. de Saint-Remy," said Madame 
 d'Orbigny ; " what a time it is since I saw you ! " 
 
 " Why, madame, since D'Harville's marriage, at which 
 I was present, I do not think I have had the pleasure of 
 meeting you," said M. de Saint-Remy, bowing, and 
 assuming an affable and smiling demeanour. " You 
 have remained in Normandy ever since, I think ? " 
 
 " Why, yes ! M. d'Orbigny will only live in the 
 country, and what he likes I like ; so you see in me a 
 complete country wife. I have not been in Paris since 
 the marriage of my dear stepdaughter with that excellent 
 M. d'Harville. Do you see him frequently ? " 
 
 " D'Harville has grown very sullen and morose ; he is 
 seldom seen in the world," said M. de Saint-Remy, with 
 something like impatience, for the conversation was 
 most irksome to him, both because of its untimeliness 
 and that the notary seemed amused at it ; but Madame 
 d'Harville's stepmother, enchanted at thus meeting with 
 a dandy of the first water, was not the woman to allow 
 her prey to escape her so easily. 
 
 " And my dear stepdaughter," she continued, — " she, 
 I hope, is not as morose as her husband ? " 
 
 " Madame d'Harville is all the fashion, and has the 
 world at her feet, as a lovely woman should have. But 
 I take up your time, and — " 
 
 " Not at all, I assure you. It is quite agreeable to me 
 to meet the ' observed of all observers,' — the mon- 
 arch of fashion, — for, in ten minutes, I shall be as au 
 fait of Paris as if I had never left it. And your dear 
 M. de Lucenay, who was also present at M. d'Harville's 
 marriage ? " 
 
 " A still greater oddity. He has been travelling in 
 the East, and returned in time to receive a sword-wound 
 yesterday, — nothing serious, though." 
 
 133 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Poor dear duke ! And his wife, always lovely and 
 fascinating ? " 
 
 " Madame, I have the honour to be one of her pro- 
 foundest admirers, and my testimony would, therefore, 
 be received with suspicion. I beg, on your return to 
 Aubiers, you will not forget my regards to M. d'Orbigny." 
 
 " He will, I am sure, be most sensible of your kind- 
 ness ; he often talks of you, and says you remind him of 
 the Duke de Lauzun." 
 
 " His comparison is a eulogy in itself, but, unfor- 
 tunately, infinitely more flattering than true. Adieu, 
 madame, for I fear I must not ask to be allowed to pay 
 my respects to you before your departure." 
 
 " I should lament to give you the trouble of calling 
 on me, for I have pitched my tent for a few days in a 
 furnished hQtel ; but if, in the summer or autumn, you 
 should be passing our way, en route to some of those 
 fashionable chateaus where the leaders of ton dispute 
 the pleasure of receiving you, pray give us a few days of 
 your society, if it be only by way of contrast, and to rest 
 yourself with us poor rustic folk from the whirl of your 
 high life of fashion and distinction ; for where you are 
 it is always delightful to be." 
 
 " Madame ! " 
 
 " I need not say how delighted M. d'Orbigny and 
 myself would be to receive you ; but adieu, sir, I fear 
 the kind attorney (she pointed to Ferrand) will grow 
 impatient at our gossip." 
 
 " Quite the reverse, madame, quite the reverse," said 
 Ferrand, with an emphasis that redoubled the repressed 
 rage of M. de Saint-Remy. 
 
 " Is not M. Ferrand a terrible man ? " said Madame 
 d'Orbigny, affectedly. " Mind now, I tell you, that, if 
 he has charge of your affairs, he will scold you awfully. 
 He is the most unpitying man — But that's my non- 
 sense ; on the contrary, why, such an exquisite as you to 
 have M. Ferrand for his solicitor is a proof of reforma- 
 134 
 
THE OFFICE. 
 
 tion, for we know very well that he never allows his 
 clients to do foolish things ; if they do, he gives up 
 their business. Oh, he will not be everybody's lawyer!" 
 Then, turning to Jacques Ferrand : " Do you know, most 
 puritanical solicitor, that you have made a splendid con- 
 version there ? If you reform the exquisite of exquisites, 
 the King of the Mode — " 
 
 " It is really a conversion, madame. The viscount left 
 my study a very different man from what he entered it." 
 
 " There, I tell you that you perform miracles ! " 
 
 "Ah, madame, you flatter me," said Jacques Ferrand, 
 with emphasis. 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy made a low bow to Madame 
 d'Orbigny, and then, as he left the notary, desirous of 
 trying once more to excite his pity, he said to him, in a 
 careless tone, which, however, betrayed deep anxiety : 
 
 " Then, my dear M. Ferrand, you will not grant me 
 the favour I ask ? " 
 
 " Some wild scheme, no doubt. Be inexorable, my 
 dear Puritan," cried Madame d'Orbigny, laughing. 
 
 " You hear, sir ? I must not contradict such a hand- 
 some lady." 
 
 " My dear M. Ferrand, let us speak seriously of serious 
 things, and, you know, this is a most serious matter. 
 Do you really refuse me ? " inquired the viscount, with 
 an anxiety which he could not altogether dissemble. 
 
 The notary was cruel enough to appear to hesitate ; 
 M. de Saint-Remy had an instant's hope. 
 
 " What, man of iron, do you yield ? " said Madame 
 d'Harville's stepmother, laughing still. " Do you, too, 
 yield to the charm of the irresistible ? " 
 
 " Ma foi, madame ! I was on the point of yielding, as 
 you say ; but you make me blush for my weakness," 
 added M. Ferrand. And then, addressing himself to 
 the viscount, he said to him, with an accent of which • 
 Saint-Remy felt all the meaning, " Well then, seriously," 
 (and he dwelt on the word), " it is impossible." 
 
 135 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 "Ah, the Puritan! Hark to the Puritan!" said 
 Madame d'Orbigny. 
 
 " See M. Petit-Jean. He will think precisely as I do, 
 I am sure, and, like me, will say to you ' No ! "' 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy rushed out in despair. 
 
 After a moment's reflection he said to himself, " It 
 must be so ! " Then he added, addressing his chasseur, 
 who was standing with the door of his carriage opened, 
 " To the HStel de Lucenay." 
 
 Whilst M. de Saint-Remy is on his way to see the 
 duchess, we will present the reader at the interview be- 
 tween M. Ferrand and the stepmother of Madame d'Har- 
 ville. 
 
 136 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE CLIENTS. 
 
 The reader may have forgotten the portrait of the 
 stepmother of Madame d'Harville as drawn by the 
 latter. Let us then repeat, that Madame d'Orbigny was 
 a slight, fair, delicate woman, with eyelashes almost 
 white, round and palish blue eyes, with a soft voice, a 
 hypocritical air, insidious and insinuating manners. Any 
 one who studied her treacherous and perfidious counte- 
 nance would detect therein craft and cruelty. 
 
 " What a delightful young man M. de Saint-Remy is ! " 
 said Madame d'Orbigny to Jacques Ferrand, when the 
 viscount had left them. 
 
 " Delightful ! But, madame, let us now proceed to our 
 business. You wrote to me from Normandy that you 
 desired to consult me upon most serious matters." 
 
 " Have you not always been my adviser ever since the 
 worthy Doctor Polidori introduced me to you ? By the 
 way, have you heard from him recently ? " inquired 
 Madame d'Orbigny, with an air of complete carelessness. 
 
 " Since he left Paris he has not written me a single 
 line," replied the notary, with an air of similar indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 Let the reader understand that these two persons lied 
 most unequivocally to each other. The notary had seen 
 Polidori (one of his two accomplices) recently, and had 
 proposed to him to go to Asnieres, to the Martials, the 
 fresh-water pirates, of whom we shall presently speak, — 
 had proposed to him, we say, to poison Louise Morel, 
 137 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 under the name of Doctor Vincent. Madame d'Har- 
 ville's stepmother, on her side, had come to Paris in 
 order to have a secret meeting with this scoundrel, who 
 had been for a long time concealed, as we have said, 
 under the name of Ce'sar Bradamanti. 
 
 " But it is not the good doctor of whom we have to 
 discourse," continued Madame d'Harville's stepmother. 
 " You see me very uneasy. My husband is indisposed ; 
 his health becomes weaker and weaker every day. With- 
 out experiencing serious alarm, his condition gives me 
 much concern, — or rather, gives him much concern," 
 said Madame d'Orbigny, drying her eyes, which were 
 slightly moistened. 
 
 " What is the business, madame ? " 
 
 " He is constantly talking of making his last arrange- 
 ments, — of his will." Here Madame d'Orbigny concealed 
 her face in her pocket-handkerchief for some minutes. 
 
 " It is very afflicting, no doubt," said the notary ; " but 
 the precaution has nothing terrible in itself. And what 
 may be M. d'Orbigny's intentions, madame ? " 
 
 " Dear sir ! How do I know ? You may suppose that 
 when he commences the subject I do not allow him to 
 dwell on it long." 
 
 " Well, then, he has not up to this time told you 
 anything positive ? " 
 
 " I think," replied Madame d'Orbigny, with a deep 
 sigh, — "I think that he wishes to leave me not only 
 all that the law will allow him to bequeath to me, 
 but — But, really, I pray of you, do not let us talk of 
 that." 
 
 « Of what, then, shall we talk ? " 
 
 " Alas, you are right, pitiless man ! I must, in spite 
 of myself, return to the sad subject that brings me here 
 to see you. Well, then, M. d'Orbigny's inclination ex- 
 tends so far that he desires to sell a part of his estate 
 and present me with a large sum." 
 
 " But his daughter — his daughter ? " exclaimed M. 
 13S 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 Ferrand, harshly. " I must tell you that, during the 
 last year, M. d'Harville has placed his affairs in my 
 hands, and I have lately purchased a splendid estate for 
 him. You know my blunt way of doing business ? 
 Whether M. d'Harville is my client or not is no matter. 
 I stand up only for justice. If your husband makes up 
 his mind to behave to his daughter in a way that I do 
 not approve, I tell you plainly he must not reckon on my 
 assistance. Upright and downright, such has always 
 been my line of conduct." 
 
 " And mine, also ! Therefore it is that I am always 
 saying to my husband what you now say to me, 4 Your 
 daughter has behaved very ill to you, that is but too 
 true ; but that is no reason why you should disinherit 
 her.'" 
 
 " Very good, — quite right ! And what answer does 
 he make to that ? " 
 
 " He replies, ' I shall leave my daughter twenty-five 
 thousand livres of annual income (1,000Z.) ; she had 
 more than a million (40,000?.) from her mother. Her 
 husband has an enormous fortune of his own; and, 
 therefore, why should I not leave you the residue of 
 my fortune, — you, my tender love, the sole support, 
 the only comfort of my declining years, my guardian 
 angel ? ' I repeat these very flattering words to you," 
 said Madame d'Orbigny, with an air of modesty, "to 
 prove to you how kind M. d'Orbigny is to me. But, in 
 spite of that, I have always refused his offers ; and, as 
 he perceives that, he has compelled me to come and seek 
 you." 
 
 " But I do not know M. d'Orbigny." 
 " But he, like all the world, knows your high char- 
 acter." 
 
 " But why should he send you to me?" 
 
 " To put an end to all my scruples and refusals, he 
 said to me, ' I will not ask you to consult my notary, 
 because you will think him too much devoted to my 
 139 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 service ; but I will trust myself entirely to the decision 
 of a man of whose extreme probity of character I have 
 heard you so frequently speak in praise, — M. Jacques 
 Ferrand. If he considers your delicacy compromised 
 by your consent to my wishes, we will not say another 
 word on the subject ; otherwise, you must comply with- 
 out a word.' ' I consent ! ' I replied to M. d'Orbigny. 
 And so now you are the arbitrator between us. ' If M. 
 Ferrand approves,' added my husband, ' I will send him 
 ample power to realise in my name my rents and invest- 
 ments, and he shall keep the proceeds in his hands as 
 a deposit; and thus, after my decease, my tender love, 
 you will at least have an existence worthy of you. ' " 
 
 Perhaps M. Ferrand never had greater need of his 
 spectacles than at this moment ; for, had he not worn 
 them, Madame d'Orbigny would doubtless have been 
 struck with the sparkle of the notary's eyes, which 
 seemed to dart fire when the word deposit was pro- 
 nounced. However, he replied, in his usual coarse way : 
 
 "It is very tiresome. This is the tenth or twelfth 
 time that I have been made the arbitrator in a similar 
 matter, always under the pretence of my honesty, — 
 that is the only word in people's mouths. My honesty ! 
 — my honesty ! What a fine quality, forsooth ! — 
 which only brings me in a great deal of tiresome 
 trouble." 
 
 " My good M. Ferrand ! Come, do not repulse me. 
 You will write at once to M. d'Orbigny, who only 
 awaits your letter to send you full powers to act for 
 him, and to realise the sum required." 
 
 " Which amounts to how much ? " 
 
 " Why, I think he said four or five hundred thousand 
 francs" (16,0007. or 20,000?.). 
 
 " The sum, after all, is not so much as I thought. 
 You are devoted to M. d'Orbigny. His daughter is 
 very rich ; you have nothing. That is not just ; and 
 I really think you should accept it." 
 
 140 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 " Really, do you think so, indeed ? " said Madame 
 d'Orbigny, who was the dupe, like the rest of the world, 
 of the proverbial probity of the notary, and who had 
 not been enlightened by Polidori in this particular. 
 
 " You may accept," he repeated. 
 
 " I will accept, then," said Madame d'Orbigny, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 The chief clerk knocked at the door. 
 
 " Who is there ? " inquired M. Ferrand. 
 
 " Madame the Countess Macgregor." 
 
 " Request her to wait a moment." 
 
 " I will go, then, my dear M. Ferrand," said Madame 
 d'Orbigny. " You will write to my husband, since he 
 wishes it, and he will send you the requisite authority 
 by return of post?" 
 
 " I will write." 
 
 " Adieu, my worthy and excellent counsellor ! " 
 
 " Ah, you do not know, you people of the world, how 
 disagreeable it is to take charge of such deposits, — 
 the responsibility which we then assume. I tell you that 
 there is nothing more detestable in the world than this 
 fine character for probity, which brings down upon 
 one all these turmoils and troubles." 
 
 " And the admiration of all good people." 
 
 " Thank Heaven, I place otherwise than here below 
 the hopes of the reward at which I aim ! " said M. 
 Ferrand, in a hypocritical tone. 
 
 To Madame d'Orbigny succeeded Sarah Macgregor. 
 
 Sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her 
 usual coolness and assurance. Jacques Ferrand did 
 not know her, nor the motives of her visit, and he 
 therefore scrutinised her carefully in the hope of 
 catching another dupe. He looked most attentively at 
 the countess ; and, despite the imperturbability of this 
 marble-fronted woman, he observed a slight working of 
 the eyebrows, which betrayed a repressed embarrass- 
 ment. The notary rose from his seat, handed a chair, 
 141 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 and, motioning to Sarah to sit down, thus accosted 
 her : 
 
 " You have requested of me, madame, an interview for 
 to-day. I was very much engaged yesterday, and could 
 not reply until this morning. I beg you will accept my 
 apology for the delay." 
 
 " I was desirous of seeing you, sir, on a matter of the 
 greatest importance. Your reputation for honesty, kind- 
 ness, and complaisance has made me hope that the step 
 I have taken with you will be successful." 
 
 The notary bent forward slightly in his chair. 
 
 " I know, sir, that your discretion is perfect." 
 
 " It is my duty, madame." 
 
 " You are, sir, a man of rigid, moral, and incorruptible 
 character." 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " Yet, sir, if you were told that it depended on you to 
 restore life — more than life, reason — to an unhappy 
 mother, should you have the courage to refuse her ? " 
 
 " If you will state the circumstances, madame, I shall 
 be better able to reply." 
 
 " It is fourteen years since, at the end of the month 
 of December, 1824, a man in the prime of life, and 
 dressed in deep mourning, came to ask you to take, by 
 way of life-annuity, the sum of a hundred and fifty 
 thousand francs (6,000Z.), which it was desired should 
 be sunk in favour of a child of three years of age, whose 
 parents were desirous of remaining unknown." 
 
 " Well, madame ? " said the notary, careful not to 
 reply in the affirmative. 
 
 " You assented, and took charge of this sum, agreeing 
 to insure the child a yearly pension of eight thousand 
 francs (320Z.). Half this income was to accumulate for 
 the child's benefit until of age ; the other half was to 
 be paid by you to the person who took care of this little 
 girl." 
 
 « Well, madame ? " 
 
 142 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 "At the end of two years," said Sarah, unable to 
 repress a slight emotion, " on the 28th of November, 
 1827, the child died." 
 
 " Before we proceed any farther, madame, with this 
 conversation, I must know what interest you take in 
 this matter ? " 
 
 " The mother of this little girl, sir, was — my sister. 1 
 I have here proofs of what I advance : the declaration 
 of the poor child's death, the letters of the person who 
 took charge of her, and the acknowledgment of one of 
 your clients with whom you have placed the hundred 
 and fifty thousand francs." 
 
 " Allow me to see those papers, madame." 
 
 Somewhat astonished at not being believed on her 
 word, Sarah drew from a pocketbook several papers, 
 which the notary examined with great attention. 
 
 " Well, madame, what do you desire ? The declara- 
 tion of decease is perfectly in order. The hundred and 
 fifty thousand francs came to my client, M. Petit-Jean, 
 on the death of the child. It is one of the chances of 
 life-annuities, as I remarked to the person who placed 
 the affair in my hands. As to the pension, it was duly 
 paid by me up to the time of the child's decease." 
 
 " I am ready to declare, sir, that nothing could be 
 more satisfactory than your conduct throughout the 
 whole of the affair. The female who had charge of 
 the child is also entitled to our gratitude, for she 
 took the greatest care of my poor little niece." 
 
 " True, madame. And I was so much satisfied with 
 her conduct, that, seeing her out of place after the death 
 of the child, I took her into my employment ; and, since 
 that time, she has remained with me." 
 
 " Is Madame Se'raphin in your service, sir ? " 
 
 1 It is, perhaps, unnecessary to remind the reader that the child in ques- 
 tion is Fleur-de-Marie, daughter of Rodolph and Sarah, and that the latter, 
 in speaking of a pretended sister, tells a falsehood necessary for her plans, 
 as will be seen. Sarah was convinced, as was Rodolph, also, of the death of 
 the little girl. 
 
 143 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " She has been my housekeeper these fourteen years, 
 and I must ever speak in her praise." 
 
 " Since that is the case, sir, she may be of the greatest 
 use to us, if you will kindly grant me a request, which 
 may appear strange, perhaps even culpable, at first sight, 
 but when you know the motive — " 
 
 " A culpable request, madame, is what I cannot believe 
 you capable of addressing to me." 
 
 " Sir, I am acquainted with the rectitude of your prin- 
 ciples ; but all my hope — my only hope — is in your 
 pity. Under any event, I may rely on your discretion ? " 
 
 " Madame, you may." 
 
 " Well, then, I will proceed. The death of this poor 
 child was so great a shock to her mother, that her grief 
 is as great now as it was fourteen years since, and, hav- 
 ing then feared for her life, we are now in dread for her 
 reason." 
 
 " Poor mother ! " said M. Ferrand, in a tone of sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 " Oh, yes, poor unhappy mother, indeed, sir ! for she 
 could only blush at the birth of her child at the time 
 when she lost it; whilst now circumstances are such, 
 that, if the child were still alive, my sister could render 
 her legitimate, be proud of her, and never again allow 
 her to quit her. Thus this incessant regret, coming to 
 add to her other sorrows, we are afraid every hour lest 
 she should be bereft of her senses." 
 
 " It is unfortunate that nothing can be done in the 
 matter." 
 
 " Yes, sir — " 
 
 " What, madame ? " 
 
 " Suppose some one told the poor mother, ' Your child 
 was reported to be dead, but she did not die : the woman 
 who had charge of her when she was little could vouch 
 for this.' " 
 
 " Such a falsehood, madame, would be cruel. Why 
 give so vain a hope to the poor mother?" 
 
 144 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 " But, supposing it were not a falsehood, sir ? or, 
 rather, if the supposition could be realised ? " 
 
 " By a miracle ? If it only required my prayers to be 
 united with your own to obtain this result, I would give 
 them to you from the bottom of my heart, — believe 
 me, madame. Unfortunately, the register of decease is 
 strictly regular." 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, I know well enough that the child is 
 dead ; and yet, if you will agree, that misfortune need 
 not be irreparable." 
 
 " Is this some riddle, madame ? " 
 
 " I will speak more clearly. If my sister were to- 
 morrow to recover her daughter, she would be certain 
 not only to be restored to health, but to be wedded to 
 the father of her child, who is now as free as herself. 
 My niece died at six years old. Separated from her 
 parents from a very tender age, they have not the slight- 
 est recollection of her. Suppose a young girl of seven- 
 teen was produced (my niece would be about that age), 
 — a young girl (such as there are many) forsaken by 
 her parents, — and it was said to my sister, < Here's your 
 daughter, for you have been imposed upon. Important 
 interests have required that she should have been said 
 to be dead. The female who brought her up and a 
 respectable notary will confirm these facts, and prove 
 to you that it is really she — ' " 
 
 Jacques Ferrand, after having allowed the countess 
 to speak on without interruption, rose abruptly, and" 
 exclaimed, with an indignant air : 
 
 " Madame, this is infamous ! " 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 " To dare to propose such a thing to me — to me ! 
 A supposititious child, the destruction of a registry of 
 decease ; a criminal act, indeed ! It is the first time in 
 my life that I was ever subjected to so outrageous a 
 proposal, — a proposal I have not merited, and you 
 know it!" 
 
 145 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 " But, sir, what wrong does this do to any one ? My 
 sister and the individual she desires to marry are widow 
 and widower, and childless, both bitterly lamenting the 
 child they have lost. To deceive them is to restore 
 them to happiness, to life, is to ensure a happy destiny 
 to some poor, forsaken girl ; and it becomes, therefore, 
 a noble, a generous action, and not a crime ! " 
 
 " Really, madame, I marvel to see how the most 
 execrable projects may be coloured, so as to pass for 
 beautiful pictures ! " 
 
 " But, sir, reflect — " 
 
 " I repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous ! And 
 it is shameful to see a lady of your rank lend herself to 
 such abominable machinations, — to which, I trust, your 
 sister is a stranger." 
 
 " Sir — " 
 
 " Enough, madame, enough ! I am not a polished gentle- 
 man, I am not, and I shall speak my mind bluntly." 
 
 Sarah gave the notary a piercing look with her jet- 
 black eyes, and said, coldly : 
 
 " You refuse ?" 
 
 " I pray, madame, that you will not again insult me." 
 
 " Beware ! " 
 
 " What ! Threats ? " 
 
 " Threats ! And that you may learn they are not 
 vain ones, learn, first, that I have no sister — " 
 " What, madame ? " 
 " I am the mother of this child ! " 
 " You?" 
 
 "I — I made a circuitous route to reach my end — 
 coined a tale to excite your interest ; but you are piti- 
 less. I raise the mask, you are for war. Well, war be 
 it then ! " 
 
 " War ! Because I refuse to associate myself with you 
 in a criminal machination ! What audacity ! " 
 
 " Listen to me, sir ! Your reputation as an honest 
 man is established, acknowledged, undisputed — " 
 146 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 "Because deserved; and, therefore, you must have 
 lost your reason to make me such a proposal as you 
 have done, and then threaten me because I will not 
 accede to it." 
 
 " I know, sir, better than any one how much reputa- 
 tions for immaculate virtue are to be distrusted ; they 
 often mask wantonness in women and roguery in men." 
 
 "Madame?" 
 
 " Ever since our conversation began, — I do not know 
 why, but I have mistrusted your claim to the esteem 
 and consideration which you enjoy." 
 
 " Really, madame, your mistrust does honour to your 
 penetration ! " 
 
 " Does it not ? For this mistrust is based on mere 
 nothings — on instinct — on inexplicable presentiments ; 
 but these intimations have rarely beguiled me." 
 
 " Madame, let us terminate this conversation." 
 
 " First learn my determination. I begin by telling 
 you that I am convinced of the death of my poor daugh- 
 ter. But, no matter, I shall pretend that she is not 
 dead : the most unlikely things do happen. You are 
 at this moment in a position of which very many must 
 be envious, and would be delighted at any weapon with 
 which to assail you. I will supply one." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 " I, by attacking you under some absurd pretext, 
 some irregularity in the declaration of death ; say — no 
 matter what — I will insist that my child is not dead. 
 As I have the greatest interest in making it believed 
 that she is still alive, though lost, this action will be 
 useful to me in giving a wide circulation to the affair. 
 A mother who claims her child is always interesting ; 
 and I should have with me those who envy you, — your 
 enemies, and every sensitive and romantic mind." 
 
 " This is as mad as it is malevolent ! What motive 
 could I have in making your daughter pass for dead, if 
 she were not really defunct ? " 
 
 147 
 
 * 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " That is true enough, and the motive may be difficult 
 to find ; but, then, have we not the attorneys and 
 barristers at our elbows ? Now I think of it (excellent 
 idea !), desirous of sharing with your client the sum 
 sunk in the annuity on this unfortunate child, you caused 
 her disappearance." 
 
 The unabashed notary shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " If I had been criminal enough for that, instead of 
 causing its disappearance, I should have killed it ! " 
 
 Sarah started with surprise, remained silent for a 
 moment, and then said, with bitterness : 
 
 " For a pious man, this is an idea of crime deeply 
 reflective ! Can I by chance, then, have hit the mark 
 when I fired at random ? I must think of this, — and 
 think I will. One other word. You see the sort of 
 woman I am : I crush without remorse all obstacles 
 that lie in my onward path. Reflect well, then, for 
 to-morrow this must be decided on. You may do what 
 I ask you with impunity. In his joy, the father of my 
 daughter will not think of doubting the possibility of his 
 child's restoration, if our falsehoods, which will make him 
 happy, are adroitly combined. Besides, he has no other 
 proofs of the death of our daughter than those I wrote 
 to him of fourteen years ago, and I could easily per- 
 suade him that I had deceived him on this subject ; for 
 then I had real causes of complaint against him. I will 
 tell him that in my grief I was desirous of breaking 
 every existing tie that bound us to each other. You 
 cannot, therefore, be compromised in any way. Affirm 
 only, irreproachable man. Affirm that all was in former 
 days concerted between us, — you and me and Madame 
 S^raphin, — and you will be credited. As to the fifteen 
 thousand francs sunk in an annuity for my child, that is 
 my affair solely. They will remain acquired by your 
 client, who must be kept profoundly ignorant of this ; 
 and, moreover, you shall yourself name your own 
 recompense." 
 
 148 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 Jacques Ferrand maintained all his sang-froid in spite 
 of the singularity of his situation, remarkable and dan- 
 gerous as it was. The countess, really believing in the 
 death of her daughter, had proposed to the notary to 
 pass off the dead child as riving, whom, living, he had 
 declared to have died fourteen years before. He was too 
 clever, and too well acquainted with the perils of his 
 position, not to understand the effect of all Sarah's 
 threats. His reputation, although admirably and labo- 
 riously built up, was based on a substructure of sand. 
 The public detaches itself as easily as it becomes infatu- 
 ated, liking to have the right to trample under foot him 
 whom but just now it elevated to the skies. How could 
 the consequences of the first assault on the reputation 
 of Jacques Ferrand be foreseen? However absurd the 
 attack might be, its very boldness might give rise to sus- 
 picions. Wishing to gain time to determine on the mode 
 by which he would seek to parry the dangerous blow, the 
 notary said, frigidly, to Sarah : 
 
 " You have given me, madame, until to-morrow at noon ; 
 I give you until the next day to renounce a plot whose 
 serious nature you do hot seem to have contemplated. 
 If, between this and then, I do not receive from you a 
 letter informing me that you have abandoned this crim- 
 inal and crazy enterprise, you will learn to your cost 
 that Justice knows how to protect honest people who 
 refuse guilty associations, and what may happen to the 
 concoctors of hateful machinations." 
 
 "You mean to say, sir, that you ask from me one 
 more day to reflect on my proposals ? That is a good 
 sign, and I grant the delay. The day after to-morrow, 
 at this hour, I will come here again, and it shall be 
 between us peace or war, — I repeat it, — but a ' war to 
 the knife,' without mercy or pity." 
 
 And Sarah left the room. 
 
 " All goes well," she said. " This miserable girl, in 
 149 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 whom Rodolph capriciously takes so much interest, and 
 has sent to the farm at Bouqueval, in order, no doubt, 
 to make her his mistress hereafter, is no longer to be 
 feared, — thanks to the one-eyed woman who has freed 
 me from her. Rodolph's adroitness has saved Madame 
 d'Harville from the snare into which I meant she should 
 fall ; but it is impossible that she can escape from the 
 fresh plot I have laid for her, and thus she must be for 
 ever lost to Rodolph. Thus, saddened, discouraged, iso- 
 lated from all affection, will he not be in a frame of 
 mind such as will best suit my purpose of making him 
 the dupe of a falsehood to which, by the notary's aid, I 
 can give every impress of truth ? And the notary will 
 aid me, for I have frightened him. I shall easily find a 
 young orphan girl, interesting and poor, who, taught her 
 lesson by me, will fill the character of our child so bitterly 
 mourned by Rodolph. I know the expansiveness, the 
 generosity of his heart, — yes, to give a name, a rank to 
 her whom he will believe to be his daughter, till now 
 forsaken and abandoned, he will renew those bonds 
 between us which I believed indissoluble. The predic- 
 tions of my nurse will be at length realised, and I shall 
 thus and then attain the constant aim of my life, — a 
 crown ! " 
 
 Sarah had scarcely left the notary before M. Charles 
 Robert entered, after alighting from a very dashing cab- 
 riolet. He went like a person on most intimate terms 
 to the private room of Jacques Ferrand. 
 
 The commandant, as Madame Pipelet called him, 
 entered without ceremony into the notary's cabinet, 
 whom he found in a surly, bilious mood, and who thus 
 accosted him : 
 
 " I reserve the afternoon for my clients ; when you 
 wish to speak to me come in the morning, will you ? " 
 
 " My dear lawyer " (this was a standing pleasantry of 
 M. Robert), "I have a very important matter to talk 
 150 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 about in the first place, and, in the next, I was anxious 
 to assure you in person against any alarms you might 
 have — " 
 
 "What alarms?" 
 
 " What ! Haven't you heard ? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Of my duel — " 
 
 "Your duel?" 
 
 " With the Duke de Lucenay. Is it possible you have 
 not heard of it ? " 
 " Quite possible." 
 "Pooh! pooh!" 
 
 « But what did you fight about ? " 
 
 " A very serious matter, which called for bloodshed. 
 Only imagine that, at a very large party, M. de Lucenay 
 actually said that I had a phlegmy cough ! " 
 
 "That you had — " 
 
 " A phlegmy cough, my dear lawyer ; a complaint which 
 is really most ridiculously absurd ! " 
 
 " And did you fight about that ? " 
 
 " What the devil would you have a man fight about ? 
 Can you imagine that a man could stand calmly and 
 hear himself charged with having a phlegmy cough ? 
 And before a lovely woman, too ! Before a little mar- 
 chioness, who — who — In a word, I could not stand 
 it!" 
 
 « Really ! " 
 
 " The military men, you see, are always sensitive. 
 My seconds went, the day before yesterday, to try and 
 obtain some explanation from those of the duke. I 
 put the matter perfectly straight, — a duel or an ample 
 apology." 
 
 " An ample apology for what ? " 
 
 "For the phlegmy cough, pardieu! — the phlegmy 
 cough that he fastened on me." 
 The notary shrugged his shoulders. 
 " The duke's seconds said, 1 We bear testimony to the 
 151 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 honourable character of M. Charles Robert, but M. de 
 Lucenay cannot, ought not, and will not retract.' ' Then, 
 gentlemen,' replied my seconds, ' M. de Lucenay is obsti- 
 nately determined to assert that M. Charles Robert has 
 a phlegmy cough ? ' ' Yes, gentlemen, but he does not 
 therefore mean in the slightest way to impugn the high 
 respectability of M. Charles Robert.' ' Then let him 
 retract — ' 'No, gentlemen, M. de Lucenay acknowl- 
 edges M. Robert as a most decidedly worthy gentleman, 
 but still asserts that he has a phlegmy cough.' You see 
 there was no means of arranging so serious an affair." 
 
 " To be sure not. You were insulted in the point 
 which a man holds dearest." 
 
 " Wasn't I ? Well, time and place were agreed on ; 
 and yesterday morning we met at Vincennes, and every- 
 thing passed off in the most honourable manner possible. 
 I touched M. de Lucenay slightly in the arm, and the 
 seconds declared that honour was satisfied. Then the 
 duke, with a loud voice, said, < I never retract before a 
 meeting, but, afterwards, it is a very different thing. It 
 is, therefore, my duty, and my honour impels me to 
 declare, that I falsely accused M. Charles Robert of hav- 
 ing a phlegmy cough. Gentlemen, I not only declare that 
 my honourable opponent had not a phlegmy cough, but I 
 trust he never will have one.' Then the duke extended 
 his hand in the most cordial manner, saying, ' Are you 
 now satisfied ? ' 4 We are friends through life and death,' 
 I replied ; and it was really due to him to say so. The 
 duke has behaved to perfection. Either he might have 
 said nothing, or contented himself with declaring that I 
 had not the phlegmy cough. But to express his wish 
 that I might never have it, was a most delicate attention 
 on his part." 
 
 " This is what I call courage well employed ! But 
 what do you want ? " 
 
 " My dear cashkeeper " (this was another of M. Robert's 
 habitual pleasantries), " it is a matter of great importance 
 152 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 to me. You know that, according to our agreement, I 
 have advanced to you three hundred and fifty thousand 
 francs (14,000Z.) to complete a particular payment you 
 had ; and it was stipulated that I was to give you three 
 months' notice of my wish to withdraw that money, the 
 interest of which you pay me regularly." 
 « Go on." 
 
 " Well," said M. Robert, hesitatingly, "I — no - — 
 that is — " 
 " What ? " 
 
 "Why, it is only a whim of becoming a landed 
 proprietor." 
 
 " Come to the point, pray ! You annoy me." 
 
 " In a word, then, I am anxious to become a landed 
 proprietor. And, if not inconvenient to you, I should 
 like — that is I should wish — to have my funds now 
 in your hands ; and I came to say so." 
 
 « Ah, ah ! " 
 
 " That does not offend you, I hope ? " 
 « Why should I be offended ? " 
 " Because you might think — " 
 " I might think — ? " 
 
 " That I am the echo of certain reports — " 
 
 " What reports ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing. Mere folly." 
 
 " But, tell me — " 
 
 " Oh, there can be no certainty in the gossip about 
 you!" 
 
 " What gossip ? " 
 
 " Oh, it is false from beginning to end. But there 
 are chatterers who say that you are mixed up in some 
 unpleasant transactions. Idle gossip, I am quite certain. 
 It is just the same as the report that you and I specu- 
 lated on the Exchange together. These reports soon 
 died away. For I will always say that — " 
 
 " So you suppose that your money is not safe with 
 me?" 
 
 153 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Oh, no — no ! But, at this moment, I should like 
 to have it in my own hands." 
 
 " Wait a moment." M. Ferrand shut the drawer of 
 his bureau, and rose. 
 
 " Where are you going, my dear cashkeeper ?" 
 
 " To fetch what will convince you of the truth of the 
 reports as to the embarrassment of my affairs," said 
 the notary, ironically ; and, opening the door of a small 
 private staircase, which enabled him to go into the 
 pavilion at the back without passing through the office, 
 he disappeared. He had scarce left the room, when the 
 head clerk rapped again. 
 
 " Come in," said Charles Robert. 
 
 " Is not M. Ferrand here ? " 
 
 " No, my worthy pounce and parchment " (another 
 joke of M. Robert). 
 
 " There is a lady with a veil on, who wishes to see my 
 employer this moment on a very urgent affair." 
 
 " Worthy quill-driver, the excellent employer will be 
 here in a moment, and I will inform him. Is the lady 
 handsome ? " 
 
 " One must be very keen-sighted to discover ; for she 
 has on a black veil, so thick that it is impossible to see 
 her face." 
 
 " Really, really, I will make her show her face as I go 
 out. I'll tell the governor as soon as he returns." 
 The clerk left the room. 
 
 " Where the devil has the attorney at law vanished ? " 
 said M. Charles Robert. " To examine the state of his 
 finances, no doubt. If these reports are groundless, so 
 much the better. And, when all is said and done, they 
 can but be false reports. Men of Jacques Ferrand's 
 honesty always have so many people jealous of them ! 
 Still, at the same time, I should just as well like to have 
 my own cash. I will certainly buy the chateau in ques- 
 tion. There are towers and Gothic turrets quite d la 
 Louis Quatorze, the real renaissance, and, in a word, all 
 154 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 that is most rococo. It would give me a kind of landed 
 proprietor's sort of air which would be capital. It 
 would not be like my amour with that flirt of a Madame 
 d'Harville. Has she really cut me ? Can she really 
 have given me the ' go-by ? ' No, no ! I am not trifled 
 with as that stupid porteress in the Rue du Temple, with 
 her bob-wig, says. Yet this agreeable little flirtation 
 has cost me at least one thousand crowns. True, the 
 furniture is left, and I have quite enough in my power 
 to compromise the marchioness. But here comes the 
 lawyer ! " 
 
 M. Ferrand returned, holding in his hands some 
 papers, which he handed to M. Charles Robert. 
 
 " Here," said he, " are three hundred and fifty thou- 
 sand francs in bank-bills. In a few days we will 
 balance the account of interest. Give me a receipt." 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed M. Robert, astonished ; " do not 
 go to think that — " 
 
 " I don't think anything." 
 
 «But — " 
 
 " The receipt ! " 
 
 " Dear cashkeeper ! " , 
 
 "Write it; and tell the persons who talk to you of 
 my embarrassments, how I reply to such suspicions." 
 
 " The fact is that, as soon as they hear this, your 
 credit will be more solid than ever. But, really, take 
 the money back again ; I do not want it at this moment. 
 I told you it was three months hence." 
 
 " Monsieur Charles Robert, no man suspects me 
 twice." 
 
 " You are angry ? " 
 
 " The receipt, — the receipt ! " 
 Man of iron, that you are ! " said M. Charles Robert. 
 " There ! " he added, writing the receipt. " There is a 
 lady, closely veiled, who desires to speak to you directly 
 on a very urgent affair. Won't I have a good look at 
 her as I go out! There's your receipt; is it all right?" 
 155 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Quite. Now I'll thank you to go out this way." 
 „ " And so not see the lady ? " 
 " Precisely so." 
 
 And the notary rang ; and when the chief clerk made 
 his appearance, he said : 
 
 " Ask the lady to walk in. Good day, M. Robert." 
 
 " Well, I see I must give up the chance of seeing her. 
 Don't bear malice, lawyer. Believe me, if — " 
 
 " There — there ; that'll do. Good-bye." And the 
 notary shut the door on M. Charles Robert. 
 
 After the lapse of a few moments, the chief clerk 
 introduced the Duchess de Lucenay, very simply attired, 
 wearing a large shawl, and her features entirely con- 
 cealed by a thick veil of black lace, depending from her 
 watered silk bonnet of the same colour. 
 
 Madame de Lucenay, a good deal agitated, walked 
 slowly towards the notary's bureau, who advanced a 
 few paces to meet her. 
 
 " Who are you, madame ; and what may be your busi- 
 ness with me?" said Jacques Ferrand, abruptly ; for 
 Sarah's menaces and M. Charles Robert's suspicions had 
 a good deal ruffled him. Moreover, the duchess was 
 clad so simply, that the notary did not see any reason 
 why he should not be rude. As she did not immediately 
 reply, he continued, abruptly : 
 
 " Will you be so kind as to inform me, madame ? " 
 
 " Sir," she said, in a faltering voice, and endeavouring 
 to conceal her face in the folds of her veil, " Sir, may I 
 entrust you with a secret of extreme importance ? " 
 
 " You may trust me with anything, madame. But it 
 is requisite that I should know and see to whom I speak." 
 
 " That, sir, perhaps, is not necessary. I know that 
 you are probity and honour itself — " 
 
 " To the point, madame, — to the point. I have some 
 one waiting for me. Who are you ? " 
 
 " My name is of no consequence, sir. One — of — my 
 friends, — a relative, — has just left you." 
 
 156 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 " His name ? " 
 
 " M. Florestan de Saint-Remy." 
 N " Ah ! " said the notary ; and he cast a scrutinising 
 and steadfast glance on the duchess. Then he added, 
 "Well, madame ?" 
 
 " M. de Saint-Remy has told me — all, — sir ! " 
 
 " What has he told you, madame ? " 
 
 "All!" 
 
 "What all?" 
 
 " Sir ; you know — " 
 
 " I know many things about M. de Saint-Remy." 
 " Alas, sir, this is a terrible thing ! " 
 " I know many terrible things about M. de Saint- 
 Remy." 
 
 " Oh, sir, he was right when he told me that you 
 were pitiless." 
 
 " For swindlers and forgers like him, — yes, I am 
 pitiless. So this Saint-Remy is a relative of yours? 
 Instead of owning it, you ought to blush at it. Do you 
 mean to try and soften me with your tears ? It is use- 
 less, — not to add that you have undertaken a very 
 disgraceful task for a respectable female." 
 
 At this coarse insolence the pride and patrician blood 
 of the duchess revolted. She drew herself up, threw 
 back her veil; and then, with a lofty air, imperious 
 glance, and firm voice, said: 
 
 " I am the Duchess de Lucenay, sir ! " 
 
 The lady then assumed the lofty look of her station ; 
 and her appearance was so imposing that the notary, 
 controlled, fascinated, receded a pace, quite overcome, 
 took off mechanically the black silk cap that covered his 
 cranium, and made a low bow. 
 
 In truth, nothing could be more charming and aristo- 
 cratic than the face and figure of Madame de Lucenay, 
 although she was turned thirty, and her features were 
 pale and somewhat agitated. But then she had full, 
 brown eyes, sparkling and bold ; splendid black hair ; a 
 157 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 nose thin and arched ; a lip red and disdainful ; a daz- 
 zling complexion ; teeth of ivory ; and a form tall and 
 slender, graceful, and full of distinction, — the carriage 
 of a goddess in the clouds, as the immortal Saint-Simon 
 says. With her hair powdered, and a costume of the 
 eighteenth centui y, Madame de Lucenay would have rep- 
 resented, physically and morally, one of those gay and 
 careless duchesses of the Regency who carried on their 
 flirtations (or worse) with so much audacity, giddiness, 
 and real kindness of heart, who confessed their pecca- 
 dilloes from time to time with so much candour and 
 naivete*, that the most punctilious said, with a smile, 
 " She is, doubtless, light and culpable ; but she is so 
 kind — so delightful ; loves with so much intensity, 
 passion, and fidelity, — as long as she does love, — that 
 we cannot really be angry with her. After all, she only 
 injures herself, and makes so many others happy ! " Ex- 
 cept the powder and the large skirts to her dress, such 
 also was Madame de Lucenay, when not depressed by 
 sombre thoughts. She entered the office of M. Jacques 
 Ferrand like a plain tradesman's wife ; in the instant she 
 came forth as a great, proud, and irritated lady. Jacques 
 Ferrand had never in his life seen a woman of such strik- 
 ing beauty, — so haughty and bold, and so noble in her 
 demeanour. The look of the duchess, her glorious eyes, 
 encircled with an imperceptible bow of azure, her rosy 
 nostrils, much dilated, betokened her ardent nature. 
 
 Although old, ugly, ignoble, and sordid, Jacques Fer- 
 rand was as capable as any one of appreciating the style 
 of beauty of Madame de Lucenay. The hatred and rage 
 which the notary felt against M. de Saint-Remy was 
 increased by the admiration which his proud and lovely 
 mistress inspired in him. Devoured by all his repressed 
 passions, he said to himself, in an agony of rage, that 
 this gentleman forger, whom he had compelled almost 
 to fall at his feet when he threatened him with the 
 assizes, could inspire such love in such a woman that 
 158 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 she actually risked the present step in his behalf, which 
 might prove fatal to her reputation. As he thus thought, 
 the notary felt his boldness, which had been for a moment 
 * paralysed, restored to him. Hatred, envy, a kind of sav- 
 age and burning ret entment, lighted up his eyes, his fore- 
 head, and his cheeks. Seeing Madame de Lucenay on 
 the point of commencing so delicate a conversation, he 
 expected from her caution and management. What was 
 his astonishment! She spoke with as much assurance 
 and haughtiness as if she were discoursing about the 
 simplest thing in the world ; and as if, before a man of 
 his sort, she had no care for reserve or those conceal- 
 ments which she would assuredly have maintained with 
 her equals. In fact, the coarse brutality of the notary 
 wounded her to the quick, and had led Madame de 
 Lucenay to quit the humble and supplicating part she 
 was acting with much difficulty to herself. Returned 
 to herself, she thought it beneath her to descend to the 
 least concealment with a mere scribbler of acts and 
 deeds. High-spirited, charitable, generous, overflowing 
 with kindness, warm-heartedness, and energy, in spite 
 of her faults, — but the daughter of a mother of no 
 principle, and who had even disgraced the noble and 
 respectable, though fallen position of an emigree, — 
 Madame de Lucenay, in her inborn contempt for certain 
 classes, would have said with the Roman empress who 
 took her bath in the presence of a male slave, " He 
 is not a man ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Notary," said the duchess, with a deter- 
 mined air, to Jacques Ferrand, " M. de Saint-Remy is 
 one of my friends, and has confided to me the embarrass- 
 ment under which he is at this moment suffering, from 
 a twofold treachery of which he is the victim. All is 
 arranged as to the money. How much is required to 
 terminate these miserable annoyances ? " 
 
 Jacques Ferrand was actually aghast at this cavalier 
 and deliberate manner of entering on this affair. 
 
 159 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " One hundred thousand francs are required," he 
 repeated, after having in some degree surmounted his 
 surprise. 
 
 " You shall have your one hundred thousand francs ; 
 so send, at once, these annoying papers to M. de Saint- 
 Remy." 
 
 " Where are the one hundred thousand francs, Madame 
 la Duchesse ? " 
 
 " Have I not said you should have them, sir ? " 
 
 " I must have them to-morrow, and before noon, 
 madame; or else proceedings will be instantly com- 
 menced for the forgery." 
 
 " Well, do you pay this sum, which I will repay to you." 
 
 " But madame, it is impossible." 
 
 " But, sir, you will not tell me, I imagine, that a 
 notary, like you, cannot find one hundred thousand 
 francs by to-morrow morning ? " 
 
 " On what securities, madame ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? Explain ! " 
 
 " Who will be answerable to me for this sum ? " 
 
 « I will." 
 
 " Still, madame — " 
 
 " Need I say that I have an estate four leagues from 
 Paris, which brings me in eighty thousand francs 
 (3,200?.) a year? That will suffice, I should think, 
 for what you call your securities ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, when the mortgage is properly 
 secured." 
 
 "What do you mean? Some formality of law, no 
 doubt? Do it, sir, do it." 
 
 " Such a deed cannot be drawn up in less than a 
 fortnight, and we must have your husband's assent, 
 madame." 
 
 " But the estate is mine, and mine only," said the 
 duchess, impatiently. 
 
 " No matter, madame, you have a husband ; and 
 mortgage deeds are very long and very minute." 
 160 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 " But, once again, sir, you will not ask me to believe 
 that it is so difficult to find one hundred thousand francs 
 , in two hours ? " 
 
 " Then, madame, apply to the notary you usually 
 employ, or your steward ; as for me, it is impossible." 
 
 " I have my reasons for keeping this secret," said 
 Madame de Lucenay, haughtily. "You know the 
 rogues who seek to take advantage of M. de Saint- 
 Remy, and that is the reason why I address myself to 
 you." 
 
 " Your confidence does me much honour, madame ; 
 but I cannot do what you ask of me." 
 " You have not this sum ? " 
 
 " I have much more than that sum, in bank-notes or 
 bright and good gold, here in my chest." 
 
 " Then why waste time about it ? You require my 
 signature, I suppose ? Well, let me give it to you, and let 
 us end the matter." 
 
 " Even admitting, madame, that you were Madame de 
 Lucenay — " 
 
 " Come to the HStel de Lucenay in one hour, sir, and 
 I will sign whatever may be requisite." 
 " And will the duke sign, also ? " 
 " I do not understand, sir." 
 
 "Year signature, alone, would be worthless to me, 
 madame." 
 
 Jacques Ferrand delighted, with cruel joy, in the 
 manifest impatience of the duchess, who, under the 
 appearance of coolness and hauteur, repressed really 
 painful agony. 
 
 For an instant she was at her wits' end. On the pre- 
 vious evening, her jeweller had advanced her a consider- 
 able sum on her jewels, some of which had been confided 
 to Morel, the lapidary. This sum had been employed 
 in paying the bills of M. de Saint-Remy, and thus dis- 
 arming the other creditors ; M. Dubreuil, the farmer 
 of Arnouville, was more than a year's rent in advance 
 161 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 on the farm ; and, then, the time was so pressing. Still 
 more unfortunately for Madame de Lucenay, two of her 
 friends, to whom she could have had recourse in this 
 moment of distress, were then absent from Paris. In 
 her eyes, the viscount was innocent of the forgery. He 
 had said, and she had believed him, that he was the 
 victim of two rogues ; but yet his position was not the 
 less terrible. He accused ! He led to prison ! And, even 
 if he took flight, his name would be no less dishonoured 
 by the suspicion that would light on him. At these dis- 
 tressing thoughts, Madame de Lucenay trembled with 
 affright. She blindly loved this man, at the same 
 time so degraded, and gifted with such strong seductive 
 powers ; and her passion for him was one of those affec- 
 tions -which women, of her character and her tempera- 
 ment, ordinarily experience when they attain an age of 
 maturity. 
 
 Jacques Ferrand carefully watched every variation 
 in the physiognomy of Madame de Lucenay, who seemed 
 to him more lovely and attractive at every moment, and 
 awakened still more his ardent feeling. Yet he felt 
 a fierce pleasure in tormenting, by his refusals, this 
 female, who could only entertain disgust and contempt 
 for him. The lady had spurned the idea of saying a 
 word to the notary that might seem like a supplication ; 
 yet, when she found the uselessness of other attempts, 
 which she had addressed to him who alone could save 
 M. de Saint-Remy, she said, at length, trying to repress 
 all evidence of emotion : 
 
 " Since you have the sum of money which I ask of 
 you, sir, and my guarantee is sufficient, why do you 
 refuse it to me ? " 
 
 " Because men have their caprices, as well as ladies, 
 madame." 
 
 " Well, what is this caprice which thus impels you to 
 act against your own interest ? For I repeat, sir, that 
 whatever may be your conditions, I accept them." 
 162 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 " You will accept all my conditions, madame ? " said 
 the notary, with a singular expression. 
 , " All, — two, three, four thousand francs, more, if you 
 please. For you must know, sir," added the duchess, 
 in a tone almost confidential, " I have no resource but in 
 you, sir, and in you only. It will be impossible for me 
 at this moment to find elsewhere what I require for 
 to-morrow, and I must have it, as you know, — I must 
 absolutely have it. Thus I repeat to you that, whatever 
 terms you require for this service, I accept them ; 
 nothing will be a sacrifice to me, — nothing." 
 
 The breath of the notary became thick, and, in his 
 ignoble blindness, he interpreted the last words of 
 Madame de Lucenay in an unworthy manner. He 
 saw, through his darkened understanding, a woman 
 as bold as some of the females of the old court, — a 
 woman driven to her wits' end for fear of the dishonour 
 of him whom she loved, and capable, perhaps, of 
 any sacrifice to save him. It was even more stupid 
 than infamous to think so, but, as we have said al- 
 ready, Jacques Ferrand sometimes, though rarely, forgot 
 himself. 
 
 He quitted his chair abruptly, and approached Madame 
 de Lucenay, who, surprised, rose when he did, and looked 
 at him with much astonishment. 
 
 " Nothing will be a sacrifice to you, say you ? To 
 you, who are so lovely ? " he exclaimed, with a voice 
 trembling and broken with agitation, as he went towards 
 the duchess. " Well, then, I will lend you this sum, on 
 one condition, — one condition only, — and I swear to 
 you — " 
 
 He could not finish his declaration. 
 
 By one of those singular contradictions of human 
 nature, at the sight of the singularly ugly features of M. 
 Ferrand, at the strange and whimsical thoughts which 
 arose in Madame de Lucenay's mind, at his ridiculous 
 pretensions, which she guessed in spite of her disquietude 
 163 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 and anxiety, she burst into a fit of laughter, so hearty, 
 so loud, and so excessive, that the disconcerted notary 
 reeled back. Then, without allowing him a moment 
 to utter another word, the duchess gave way still 
 more to her increasing mirth, lowered her veil, and, 
 between two bursts of irrepressible laughter, she 
 said to the notary, overwhelmed by hatred, rage, and 
 fury : 
 
 " Really, I should much rather prefer asking this 
 advance from M. de Lucenay." 
 
 She then left the room, laughing so heartily that, even 
 when the door of his room was closed, the notary heard 
 her still. 
 
 Jacques Ferrand no sooner recovered his reason than 
 he cursed his imprudence ; but he became reassured on 
 reflecting that the duchess could not allude to this 
 adventure without compromising herself. Still, the day 
 had been unpropitious, and he was plunged in thought 
 when the door of his study opened, and Madame Sera- 
 phin entered in great agitation- 
 
 " Ah, Ferrand," she exclaimed, " you were right when 
 you declared that, one day or other, we should be ruined 
 for having allowed her to live ! " 
 
 « Who?" 
 
 « That cursed little girl ! " 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "A one-eyed woman, whom I did not know, and to 
 whom Tournemine gave the little chit to get rid of her, 
 fourteen years ago, when we wished to make her pass 
 for dead — Ah, who would have thought it!" 
 
 " Speak ! Speak ! Why don't you speak ? " 
 
 " This one-eyed woman has been here, was down-stairs 
 just now, and told me that she knew it was I who had 
 delivered up the little brat." 
 
 " Malediction ! Who could have told her ? Tournemine 
 is at the galleys." 
 
 " I denied it, and treated the one-eyed woman as 
 164 
 
THE CLIENTS. 
 
 a liar. But bah ! she declares she knows where the 
 girl is now, and that she has grown up, that she has 
 her, and that it only depends on her to discover every- 
 thing." 
 
 " Is hell, then, unchained against me to-day ? " ex- 
 claimed the notary, in a fit of rage. " What shall I say 
 to this woman ? What shall I offer her to hold her 
 tongue ? Does she seem well off ? " 
 
 " As I treated her like a beggar, she shook her hand- 
 basket, and there was money inside of it."' 
 
 " And she knows where this young girl is now ? " 
 . " So she says." 
 
 "And she is the daughter of the Countess Sarah 
 Macgregor ! " said the stupefied notary ; " and just now 
 she offered me so much to declare that her daughter 
 was not dead ; and the girl is alive, and I can restore 
 her to her mother ! But, then, the false register of her 
 death ! If a search were made, I am ruined ! This 
 crime may put others on the scent." 
 
 After a moment's silence, he said to Madame 
 Seraphin : 
 
 " This one-eyed woman knows where the child is ? " 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And the woman will call again ? " 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 " Write to Polidori, to come to me this evening, at 
 nine o'clock." 
 
 " What ! Will you rid yourself of the young girl and 
 the old woman, too ? Ferrand, that will be too much at 
 once ! " 
 
 " I bid you write to Polidori, to come here this 
 evening, at nine o'clock ! " 
 
 At the end of this day, Rodolph said to Murphy : 
 " Desire M. de Graiin to despatch a courier this 
 instant; Cecily must be in Paris in six days." 
 
 " What ! that she-devil again ? The diabolical wife of 
 
 • 165 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 poor David, as beautiful as she is infamous ! For what 
 purpose, monseigneur ? " 
 
 " For what purpose, Sir Walter Murphy ? Ask that 
 question, in a month hence, of the notary, Jacques 
 Ferrand." 
 
 166 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 Towards ten o'clock in the evening of the same day 
 in which Fleur-de-Marie was carried off by the Chouette 
 and Schoolmaster, a man on horseback arrived at the 
 Bouqueval farm, representing himself as coming from 
 M. Rodolph to tranquillise Madame Georges as to the 
 safety of her young friend, Und to assure her of her 
 safe return ere long. The man further stated that M. 
 Rodolph, having very important reasons for making 
 the request, particularly desired no letters might be 
 addressed to him at Paris for the present; but that, 
 in the event of Madame Georges having anything 
 particular to communicate, the messenger now sent 
 would take charge of it, and deliver it punctually. 
 
 This pretended envoy on the part of Rodolph was, 
 in fact, an emissary sent by Sarah, who, by this strat- 
 agem, effected the twofold purpose of quieting the 
 apprehensions of Madame Georges and also obtaining 
 a delay of several days ere Rodolph learned that the 
 Goualeuse had been carried off ; during which interval 
 Sarah hoped to have induced the notary, Jacques Fer- 
 rand, to promote her unworthy attempt to impose a 
 supposititious child on Rodolph, after the manner which 
 has already been related. Nor was this all the evil 
 planned by the countess ; she ardently desired to get 
 rid of Madame d'Harville, on whose account she enter- 
 tained very serious misgivings, and whose destruction 
 167 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 she had so nearly compassed, but for the timely 
 interposition of Rodolph. 
 
 On the day following that in which the marquis 
 followed his wife into the house in the Rue du Temple, 
 Tom repaired thither, and, by skilfully drawing Madame 
 Pipelet into conversation, contrived to learn from her 
 how a young and elegantly dressed lady, upon the point 
 of being surprised by her husband, had been preserved 
 through the presence of mind and cleverness of a lodger 
 in the house, named M. Rodolph. 
 
 Once informed of this circumstance, and possessing 
 no positive proof of the assignation made by Cle*mence 
 with M. Charles Robert, Sarah conceived a plan evi- 
 dently more hateful than the former : she resolved to 
 despatch a second anonymous letter to M. d'Harville, 
 calculated to bring about a complete rupture between 
 himself and Rodolph ; or, failing that, to infuse into the 
 mind of the marquis suspicions so unworthy of his 
 wife and friend as should induce him to forbid Madame 
 d'Harville ever admitting the prince into her society. 
 
 This black and malignant epistle was couched in the 
 following terms : 
 
 "... You have been grossly deceived the other day ; your 
 wife, being apprised of your following her, invented a tale of 
 imaginary beneficence ; the real purpose of her visit to the Rue 
 du Temple was to fulfil an assignation with an august personage, 
 who has hired a room on the fourth floor in the house situated 
 Rue du Temple, — this illustrious individual being known only 
 at his lodging under the simple name of Rodolph. Should you 
 doubt these facts, which may probably appear to you too improb- 
 able to deserve credit, go to No. 17 Rue du Temple, and make 
 due inquiries ; obtain a description of the face and figure of the 
 august personage alluded to ; and you will be compelled to own 
 yourself the most credulous and easily duped husband that was 
 ever so royally supplanted in the affections of his wife. Despise 
 not this advice, if you would not have the world believe you 
 carry your devotion to your prince rather too far." 
 
 This infamous concoction was put into the post by 
 Sarah herself, about five o'clock in the afternoon of the 
 
 1G8 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 day which had witnessed her interview with the 
 notary. 
 
 -On this same day, after having given renewed direc- 
 tions to M. de Graiin to expedite the arrival of Cecily 
 in Paris by every means in his power, Rodolph prepared 
 
 to pass the evening with the Ambassadress of , and 
 
 on his return to call on Madame d'Harville, for the 
 purpose of informing her he had found a charitable 
 intrigue worthy even of her cooperation. 
 
 We shall now conduct our readers to the hStel of 
 Madame d'Harville. The following dialogue will abun- 
 dantly prove that, in adopting a tone of kind and gentle 
 conciliation towards a husband she had hitherto treated 
 with such invariable coldness and reserve, the heart of 
 Madame d'Harville had already determined to practise 
 the sound and virtuous sentiments dictated by Rodolph. 
 The marquis and his lady had just quitted the dinner- 
 table, and the scene we are about to describe took place 
 in the elegant little salon we have already spoken of. 
 The features of Clemence wore an expression of kindness 
 almost amounting to tenderness, and even M. d'Harville 
 appeared less sad and dejected than usual. It only remains 
 to premise that the marquis had not as yet received the 
 last infamous production of the pen of Sarah Macgregor. 
 
 "What are your arrangements for this evening?" 
 inquired M. d'Harville, almost mechanically, of his wife. 
 
 " I have no intention of going out. And what are 
 your own plans ? " 
 
 " I hardly know," answered he, with a sigh. " I feel 
 more than ordinarily averse to gaiety, and I shall pass 
 my evening, as I have passed many others, alone." 
 
 " Nay, but why alone, since I am not going out ? " 
 
 M. d'Harville gazed at his wife as though unable to 
 comprehend her. " I am aware," said he, " that you 
 mentioned your intention to pass this evening at home ; 
 still, I — " 
 
 " Pray go on, my lord." 
 
 169 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " I did not imagine you would choose to have your 
 solitude broken in upon. I believe you have always 
 expressed a wish to be alone when you did not receive 
 company ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I may have done so," said Cle'mence, with a 
 smile ; " but let me, for once, plead my sex's privilege 
 of changing my mind, and so, even at the risk of aston- 
 ishing you by my caprice, I will own that I should 
 greatly prefer sharing my solitude with you, — that is, if 
 it would be quite agreeable to you." 
 
 " Oh, how very good of you," exclaimed M. d'Harville, 
 with much delight, " thus to anticipate my most ardent 
 desire, which I durst not have requested had you not 
 so kindly encouraged me ! " 
 
 " Ah, my lord, your very surprise is a severe reproach 
 to me." 
 
 " A reproach ! Oh, not for worlds would I have you 
 so understand me ! But to find you so kindly consider- 
 ate, so attentive to my wishes, after my cruel and unjust 
 conduct the other day, does, I confess, both shame and 
 surprise me ; though the surprise is of the most gratify- 
 ing and delightful sort." 
 
 " Come, come, my lord," said Madame d'Harville, with 
 a smile of heavenly sweetness, " let the past be for ever 
 forgotten between us." 
 
 " Can you, C16mence," said M. d'Harville, " can you 
 bring yourself to forget that I have dared to suspect you ; 
 that, hurried on by a wild, insensate jealousy, I meditated 
 violence I now shudder to think of ? Still, what are even 
 these deep offences to the greater and more irreparable 
 wrong I have done you ? " 
 
 " Again I say," returned Cl^mence, making a violent 
 effort to command herself, " let us forget the past." 
 
 " What do I hear ? Can you, — oh, is it possible you 
 will pardon me, and forget all the past ? " 
 
 " I will try to do so, and I fear not but I shall succeed." 
 
 " Oh, Cle'mence ! Can you, indeed, be so generous ? 
 170 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 But no, no, — I dare not hope it ! I have long since 
 resigned all expectation that such happiness would ever 
 "be mine." 
 
 " And now you see how wrong you were in coming 
 to such a conclusion.' ' 
 
 " But how comes this blessed change ? Or do I dream ? 
 Speak to me, Cldmence ! Tell me I am not deceiving 
 myself, — that all is not mere illusion ! Speak ! Say that 
 I may trust my senses ! " 
 
 " Indeed you may ; I mean all I have said." 
 
 " And, now I look at you, I see more kindness in your 
 eye, — your manner is less cold, — your voice tremulous. 
 Oh, tell me, tell me, is this indeed true ? Or am I the 
 sport of some illusion ? " 
 
 " Nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed. 
 I, too, have need of pardon at your hands, and therefore 
 I propose that we mutually exchange forgiveness." 
 
 "You, Clemence ! You need forgiveness ! Oh, for what, 
 or wherefore ? " 
 
 " Have I not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and 
 perhaps even cruel, towards you ? Ought I not to have 
 remembered that it required a more than ordinary share 
 of courage to act otherwise than you did, — a virtue more 
 than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheer- 
 less, solitary life, for one of wedded sympathy and happi- 
 ness ? Alas, when we are in grief or suffering, it is so 
 natural to trust to the kindness and goodness of others ! 
 Hitherto your fault has been in depending too much on 
 - my generosity ; henceforward it shall be my aim to show 
 you, you have not trusted in vain." . 
 
 " Oh, go on ! Go on ! Continue still to utter such 
 heavenly words ! " exclaimed M. d'Harville, gazing in 
 almost ecstasy on the countenance of his wife, and clasp- 
 ing his hands in fervid supplication. " Let me again 
 hear you pronounce my pardon, and it will seem as 
 though a new existence were opening upon me." 
 
 " Our destinies are inseparably united, and death only 
 171 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 can dissever us. Believe me, it shall for the future be my 
 study to render life less painful to you than it has been." 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! Do I hear aright ? Clemence, can 
 it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting 
 words ?" 
 
 " Let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humil- 
 iation of hearing you express so much astonishment at 
 my speaking as my duty prompts me to do ; indeed, 
 your. reluctance to credit my assertions grieves me more 
 than I can describe. How cruel a censure does it imply 
 upon my past conduct ! Ah, who will pity and soothe 
 you in your severe trials, if not I ? I seem inspired by 
 some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect 
 upon my past conduct. I have deeply meditated on all 
 that has happened, as well as on the future. My faults 
 rise up in judgment against me ; but with them come 
 also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching 
 me how to repair my past errors." 
 
 " Your errors, my poor injured Clemence ! Alas, you 
 were not to blame ! " 
 
 " Yes, I was. I ought frankly to have appealed to 
 your honour to release me from the painful necessity of 
 living with you as your wife ; and that,, too, on the day 
 following our marriage, — " 
 
 " Clemence, for pity's sake no more ! " 
 
 " Otherwise, in accepting my position, I ought to have 
 elevated it by my entire submission and devotion. Under 
 the circumstances in which I was placed, instead of allow- 
 ing my coldness and proud reserve to act as a continual 
 reproach, I should have directed all my endeavours to 
 console you for so heavy a misfortune, and have forgotten 
 everything but the severe affliction under which you 
 laboured. By degrees I should have become attached to 
 my work of commiseration, and, probably, the very cares 
 and sacrifices it would have required to fulfil my volun- 
 tary duty ; for which your grateful appreciation would 
 have been a rich reward. I might, at last — But what 
 172 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 ails you, my lord ? Are you ill ? Surely you are 
 weeping ! " 
 
 " But they are tears of pure delight. Ah, you can 
 scarcely imagine what new emotions are awakened in my 
 heart ! Heed not my tears, beloved Clemence ; trust 
 me, they flow from an excess of happiness, arising from 
 those dear words you just now uttered. Never did I 
 seem so guilty in my own eyes as I now appear, for 
 having selfishly bound you to such a life as mine ! " 
 
 " And never did I find myself more disposed to forget 
 the past, and to bury all reference to it in oblivion ; the 
 sight of your gently falling tears, even, seems to open to 
 me a source of happiness hitherto unknown to me. 
 Courage ! Courage ! Let us, in place of that bright and 
 prosperous life denied us by Providence, seek our enjoy- 
 ment in the discharge of the serious duties allotted us. 
 Let us be mutually indulgent and forbearing towards 
 each other ; and, should our resolution fail, let us turn 
 to our child, and make her the depositary of all our 
 affections. Thus shall we secure to ourselves an unfail- 
 ing store of holy, of tranquil joys." 
 
 " Sure, 'tis some angel speaks ! " cried M. d'Harville, 
 contemplating Ms wife with impassioned looks. " Oh, 
 Clemence, you little know the pleasure and the pain 
 you cause me. The severest reproach you ever addressed 
 me — your hardest word or most merited rebuke never 
 touched me as does this angelic devotion, this disregard 
 of self, this generous sacrifice of personal enjoyment. 
 Even despite myself, I feel hope spring up within me. 
 I clare hardly trust myself to believe the blessed future 
 which suggests itself to my imagination." 
 
 " Ah, you may safely and implicitly believe all I say, 
 Albert ! I declare to you, by all that is sacred and 
 solemn, that I have firmly taken the resolution I spoke 
 of, and that I will adhere to it in strictest word and 
 deed. Hereafter I may even be enabled to give you 
 further pledges of my truth." 
 
 173 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Pledges ! " exclaimed M. d'Harville, more and more 
 excited by a happiness so wholly unlooked for. " What 
 need have I of any pledges ? Do not your look, your 
 tone, the heavenly expression of goodness which animates 
 your countenance, the rapturous pulsations of my own 
 heart, all convince me of the truth of your words ? 
 But, Cle'mence, man, you know, is a creature not easily 
 satisfied ; and," added the marquis, approaching his 
 wife's chair, " your noble, generous conduct inspires 
 me with the boldness, the courage, to hope — to hope, 
 — yes, Cle'mence, to venture to hope for that which, 
 only yesterday, I should have considered it even worse 
 than madness to presume to think of." 
 
 " For mercy's sake, explain yourself ! " said Cle'mence, 
 alarmed at the impassioned words and glances of her 
 husband. 
 
 " Yes," cried he, seizing her hand, " yes, by dint of 
 tender, untiring, unwearied love, — Cle'mence, do you 
 understand me ? — I say, by dint of love such as mine 
 I venture to hope to obtain a return of my affection. I 
 dare to anticipate being loved by you, — not with a cold, 
 lukewarm regard, but with a passion ardent as my own 
 for you. Ah, you know not the real nature of such a 
 love as I would inspire you with ! Alas ! I never even 
 dared to breathe it in your ears, — so frigid, so repul- 
 sive were you to me. Never did you bestow on me 
 a look, a word of kindness, far less make my heart leap 
 with such joy as thrilled through my breast but now, 
 when your words of sweet and gentle tenderness drew 
 happy tears from my eyes, and which, still ringing in 
 my ears, make me almost beside myself with gladness ; 
 and, amid the intoxicating delight which floats through 
 my brain, comes the proud consciousness of having 
 earned even so rich a reward by the deep, the passion- 
 ate ardour of my love for you. Oh, Cle'mence, when 
 you will let me only tell you half I have suffered, — 
 how I have writhed in despairing anguish at your 
 174 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 coldness, your disdain, how I have watched and 
 sigh«d in vain for one encouraging glance, — you will 
 own that, for patient devotion to one beloved object, 
 I am inferior to none. Whence arose that melancholy, 
 that avoidance of all society, our best friends have so 
 fruitlessly sought to rouse me from ? Can you not guess 
 the cause ? Ah, it originated in desolation of spirit and 
 despair of ever obtaining your love. Yes, dearest Cle- 
 mence, to that overwhelming dread was owing the 
 sombre taciturnity, the dislike to company, the despond- 
 ing gloom, which excited so many different conjectures. 
 Think, too, how much my sufferings must have been 
 increased by the fact that she, the beloved object of 
 my heart's idolatry, was my own, — legally, irrevocably 
 mine, — dwelling beneath the same roof, yet more com- 
 pletely alienated from me than though we dwelt in the 
 opposite parts of the earth. But my burning sighs, my 
 bitter tears, reached not you ; or, I feel almost persuaded, 
 they would have moved even you to pity me. And now 
 it seems to me that you must have divined my suffer- 
 ings, and have come, like an angel of goodness as you 
 are, to whisper in my ears bright promises of days of 
 unclouded happiness. No longer shall I be doomed 
 to gaze in unavailing yet doting admiration on your 
 graceful beauty ; no more shall I account myself most 
 blessed yet most accursed in possessing a creature of 
 matchless excellence, whose charms of mind and body, 
 alas ! I am forbidden to consider as mine ; but now the 
 envious barrier which has thus long divided us is about 
 to be withdrawn, and the treasure my beating heart 
 tells me is all my own will henceforward be freely, indis- 
 putably mine ! Will it not, dear Clemence ? Speak to 
 me, and confirm that which the busy throbbings of my 
 joyful heart tell me to hope for and expect, as the reward 
 of all I have so long endured ! " 
 
 As M. d'Harville uttered these last words, he seized 
 the hand of his wife, and covered it with passionate 
 175 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 kisses ; while C16mence, much grieved at the mistake 
 her husband had fallen into, could not avoid withdraw- 
 ing her hand with a mixture of terror and disgust. 
 And the expression of her countenance so plainly be- 
 spoke her feelings, that M. d'Harville saw at once the 
 fearful error he had committed. The blow fell with 
 redoubled force after the tender visions he had so lately- 
 conjured up. A look of intense agony replaced the 
 bright exultation of his countenance exhibited a little 
 while since, when Madame d'Harville, eagerly extending 
 her hand towards him, said, in an agitated tone : 
 
 " Albert, receive my solemn promise to be unto you as 
 the most tender and affectionate sister, — but nothing 
 more. Forgive me, I beseech you, if, inadvertently, my 
 words have inspired you with hopes which can never be 
 realised." 
 
 " Never ? " exclaimed M. d'Harville, fixing on his 
 wife a look of despairing entreaty. 
 
 " Never ! " answered she. The single word, with the 
 tone in which it was spoken, proved but too well the 
 irrevocable decision Cle'mence had formed. 
 
 Brought back, by the influence of Rodolph, to all her 
 nobleness of character, Madame d'Harville had firmly 
 resolved to bestow on her husband every kind and 
 affectionate attention ; but to love him she felt utterly 
 out of her power; and to this immutable resolution 
 she was driven by a power more forcible than either 
 fear, contempt, or even dislike, — it was a species 
 of repugnance almost amounting to horror. 
 
 After a painful silence of some duration, M. d'Harville 
 passed his hand across his moist eyelids and said, in a 
 voice of bitterness : 
 
 " Let me entreat your pardon for the unintentional 
 mistake I have made. Oh, refuse not to forgive me for 
 having ventured to believe that happiness could exist 
 for me I" 
 
 And again a long pause ensued, broken at last by 
 176 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 D'Harville's vehemently exclaiming, "What a wretch 
 ami!" 
 
 "Albert," said Cl^mence, gently, "for worlds would 
 I not reproach you; yet is my promise of being unto 
 you the most loving and affectionate of sisters unworthy 
 any estimation ? You will receive from the tender cares 
 of devoted friendship more solid happiness than love 
 could afford. Look forward to brighter days. Hitherto 
 you have found me almost indifferent to your sorrows ; 
 you shall henceforward find me all zeal and solicitude 
 to alleviate them, and eager to share with you every 
 grief or cause of suffering, whether of body or of mind." 
 
 At this moment a servant, throwing open the folding 
 doors, announced : 
 
 " His Highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein." 
 
 M. d'Harville started ; then- by a powerful effort, 
 recovering his self-command, he advanced to meet his 
 visitor. 
 
 " I am singularly fortunate, madame," said Rodolph, 
 approaching Clemence, " to find you at home to-night ; 
 and I am still more delighted with my good fortune, 
 since it procures me the pleasure of meeting you, 
 also, my dear Albert," continued he, turning to the 
 marquis, and shaking him cordially by the hand. 
 
 " It is, indeed, some time since I have had the honour 
 of paying my respects to your royal highness." 
 
 " If the truth must be spoken, my dear Albert," said 
 the prince, smilingly, " you are somewhat platonic in 
 your friendships, and, relying on the certain attachment 
 of your friends, care very little about either giving or 
 receiving any outward proof of affection." 
 
 By a breach of etiquette, which somewhat annoyed 
 Madame d'Harville, a servant here entered the room 
 with a letter for the marquis. It was the anonymous 
 epistle of Sarah, accusing Rodolph of being the lover of 
 Madame d'Harville. 
 
 The marquis, out of deference for the prince, put 
 177 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 away with his hand the small silver salver presented 
 to him by the servant, saying, in an undertone : 
 
 " Another time, — another time." 
 
 " My dear Albert," said Rodolph, in a voice of the 
 most genuine affection, " why all this ceremony with 
 me?" 
 
 « My lord ! " 
 
 " With Madame d'Harville's permission, let me beg of 
 you to read your letter without delay." 
 
 " I assure you, my lord, it is not of the slightest 
 consequence." 
 
 " Again I say, Albert, read your letter all the same 
 for my being here." 
 
 " But, my lord, indeed — " 
 
 " Nay, I ask you to do so ; or, if you will have it, 
 I desire you to read it immediately." 
 
 " If your highness commands it, my duty is obedi- 
 ence," said the marquis, taking the letter from the 
 salver. 
 
 " Yes, I positively command you to treat me as one 
 old friend ought to treat another." Then turning 
 towards Madame d'Harville, while the marquis was 
 breaking the seal of the fatal letter, the contents of 
 which were, of course, unknown to Rodolph, he said, 
 smilingly, to Madame d'Harville : 
 
 " What a triumph for you, madame, to bend this 
 untractable spirit, and make it bow to your very 
 caprice ! " 
 
 M. d'Harville having opened Sarah's infamous letter, 
 approached the wax-lights burning on the mantelpiece, 
 the better to read it. His features bore no visible mark 
 of agitation as he perused the vile scrawl. A slight 
 trembling of the hand alone was visible, as, after a short 
 hesitation, he refolded the paper and placed it in the 
 pocket of his waistcoat. 
 
 " At the risk of passing for a perfect Goth," said he, 
 with a smile, to Rodolph, " I will ask you to excuse me, 
 17S 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 my lord, while I retire to reply to this letter, which is 
 more important than it at first appeared." 
 
 " Shall I not see you again this evening ? " 
 
 " I am fearful I shall not have that honour, my lord ; 
 and I trust year royal highness will condesceid to excuse 
 me." 
 
 " What a slippery person you are ! " cried Rodolph, 
 gaily. " Will you not, madame, endeavour to prevent 
 his quitting us ? " 
 
 " Nay, I dare not attempt that your highness has failed 
 to accomplish." 
 
 " But seriously, my dear Albert, endeavour to come 
 back as soon as you have concluded your letter ; or, if 
 that is not possible, promise to give me a few minutes 
 in the morning. I have a thousand things to say to 
 you." 
 
 " Your highness overwhelms me with kindness," 
 answered the marquis, as, bowing profoundly, he with- 
 drew, leaving Cle'mence and the prince alone. 
 
 " Your husband has some heavy care on his mind," 
 observed Rudolph to the marquise ; " his smile appeared 
 to me a forced one." 
 
 " At the moment of your highness's arrival, M. d'Har- 
 ville was much excited, and he has had great difficulty 
 in concealing his agitation from you." 
 
 " My \isit was, probably, mal d propos?" 
 
 " Oh, no, my lord ! You came just in time to spare 
 me the conclusion of a most painful conversation." 
 
 " Indeed ! May I inquire the subject of it ?" 
 
 " I had explained to M. d'Harville the line of conduct 
 I had determined to pursue towards him for the future, 
 assuring him of my future sympathy and affectionate 
 attention to his happiness." 
 
 " How happy you must have rendered him by such 
 gratifying words ! " 
 
 " He did, indeed, at first, seem most truly happy ; and 
 so was I, likewise ; for his tears and his joys caused in 
 179 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 me a feeling of delight I never before experienced. Once 
 I fancied I did but indulge a just revenge each time I 
 addressed to him a reproach or a sarcasm ; but it was 
 a weak and impotent mode of torture, which always 
 recoiled upon myself, as my better judgment pointed out 
 the unworthiness of such conduct ; while just now how 
 great was the difference ! I had inquired of my husband 
 if he were going out, to which he mournfully replied 
 that he had no intention of so "doing, but should pass the 
 evening alone, as he most frequently did. Ah, my lord, 
 could you but have seen his surprise when I offered to 
 be his companion, and how suddenly did the gloomy 
 expression of his features give place to a bright glow 
 of happiness ! Ah, you were quite right, there is noth- 
 ing more really delightful than preparing happy surprises 
 for those around us." 
 
 " But how could so much kindness on your part have 
 brought about the painful conversation you were alluding 
 to just now ? " 
 
 " Alas, my lord ! " said Clemence, blushing deeply, 
 " M. d'Harville, not satisfied with the hopes I felt myself 
 justified in holding out, allowed himself to form others 
 of a nature too tender to admit of their being realised, 
 and in proportion to my consciousness of my utter 
 inability to respond to such sentiments had been my 
 anxiety not to arouse them ; and, greatly as I had felt 
 touched by the warmth of my husband's gratitude for my 
 proffered affection, I was even still more terrified and 
 alarmed by the passionate ardour of his manner and 
 expressions ; and when, carried away by the impetuosity 
 of his feelings, he pressed his lips upon my hand, a cold 
 shudder pervaded my whole frame, and I found it impos- 
 sible to conceal the disgust and alarm I experienced. 
 Doubtless this manifestation of my invincible repug- 
 nance pained him deeply, and I much lament having 
 been unable to prevent his perceiving my feelings. But 
 now that the blow has fallen, it will, at least, serve to 
 180 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 convince M. d'Harville of the utter impossibility of my 
 ever being more to him than the most tender and devoted 
 friend." 
 
 " I pity him most sincerely, without being able to 
 blame you in the slightest degree for the part you have 
 acted. There are certain feelings which must ever be 
 held sacred. But poor Albert ! With his noble, generous 
 spirit, his frank, confiding nature, his warm, enthusiastic 
 heart, — if you only knew how long I have been vainly 
 trying to discover the cause of the hidden melancholy 
 which was evidently preying upon his health. Well, we 
 must trust to the soothing effects of time and reason. 
 By degrees he will become more sensible of the value of 
 the affection you offer him, and he will resign himself 
 as he did before, when he had not the consolatory hopes 
 you now present to his view." 
 
 " Hopes which I solemnly assure you, my lord, it 
 is my fixed determination to realise in their fullest 
 extent." 
 
 " And now let us turn our attention to others who are 
 also called upon to suffer and taste of heavy sorrows. 
 You know I promised to occupy you in a charitable 
 work, which should have all the charm of a romance of 
 real life ; and I am here to perform my promise." 
 
 " What, already, my lord ? Indeed, you rejoice me 
 greatly." 
 
 " It was a most fortunate idea of mine to hire the 
 small chamber I told you of in the Rue du Temple ; you 
 can scarcely imagine all the curious and interesting 
 objects it has made me acquainted with. In the first 
 place your poor prote'ge's in the garrets are now enjoying 
 that happiness your presence secured to them. They 
 have still some severe trials to undergo ; but I will not 
 enter upon the painful details at the present moment. 
 One of these days you shall learn how many direful evils 
 may be heaped upon one unfortunate family." 
 
 " How grateful they must feel towards you ! " 
 181 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Nay, 'tis your name is ever on their lips, loaded with 
 praises and blessings." 
 
 "Ah, my lord, is it then in my name you have 
 succoured them ? " 
 
 " To increase the value of the gift, I confess I did 
 presume to name you as their benefactress. Besides, 
 what have I done more than carry out your promises ? " 
 
 " I cannot allow of even this pious fraud, and to-morrow 
 they shall learn from me whom they have to thank. 
 I will tell them the extent of their obligations to 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, pray do no such thing, or you will spoil all my 
 fine schemes. Remember that I have a small apartment 
 in the house ; that for the sake of much good I hope to 
 effect, I am anxious to preserve a strict incognito there. 
 Recollect, also, that the Morels are now beyond the reach 
 of further distress ; and, finally, let me remind you that 
 there are other claimants for your benevolence. And 
 now for the subject of our present intrigue. I want your 
 generous aid and assistance in behalf of a mother and 
 daughter, who from former affluence are at this moment 
 reduced to the most abject penury, in consequence of 
 having been most villainously despoiled of their just 
 rights." 
 
 " Poor things ! And where do these unfortunate beings 
 reside, my lord ? " 
 " 1 do not know." 
 
 " Then how did you become acquainted with their 
 misfortunes ? " 
 
 " Yesterday I was at the Temple, — perhaps, -Madame 
 la Marquise, you do not know what sort of place the 
 Temple is?" 
 
 " Indeed, my lord, I do not." 
 
 " It is a bazaar of the most amusing description. Well, 
 I went there for the purpose of making several purchases 
 in company with a female lodger who occupies an apart- 
 ment adjoining my own — " 
 182 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 " Indeed ! A female neighbour ? " 
 
 " Yes, my next-door neighbour on the fourth floor. 
 Don't you recollect I told you I had a chamber in the 
 Rue du Temple?" 
 
 "Pardon me, my lord, I had quite forgotten that 
 circumstance." 
 
 " I must tell you that this same neighbour is one of 
 the prettiest little mantua-makers you ever saw. She is 
 called Rigolette, is for ever laughing, and never was in 
 love." 
 
 " Upon my word, a most uncommon specimen of her 
 class!" 
 
 " She even admits that her indifference to the tender 
 passion arises less from prudence than because she has 
 not time to think about love or lovers, both of which she 
 says would take up too much of her time ; as, working 
 from twelve to fifteen hours daily, it is with difficulty 
 she manages to earn twenty-five sous a day, yet on that 
 trifling sum she lives contentedly." 
 
 " Is it possible ? " 
 
 " Possible ! .Why, she even launches out into luxuries, 
 — has a couple of birds, who consume as much food as 
 herself, arranges her chamber with the most scrupulous 
 and pretty neatness, while her dress would make a mod- 
 ern belle grow pale with envy." 
 
 " And all this effected upon five and twenty sous a 
 day ? It is almost difficult to believe it." 
 
 " I assure you my fair neighbour is a pattern of 
 industry, order, economy, and practical philosophy ; and 
 as such I beg to recommend her to your notice in her 
 capacity of dressmaker, in which she is reported to have 
 much skill. If you will honour her with your com- 
 mands, her fortune will be surely made ; although 
 there is no occasion for your carrying your benefi- 
 cence so far as to wear the dresses you permit her 
 to make." 
 
 " Oh, I will take care to give her employment imme- 
 
 183 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 diately. Poor girl ! living honestly and contentedly 
 upon a sum squandered by the rich for the most 
 trifling whim or caprice." 
 
 " Well, now then that you have undertaken to interest 
 yourself in my deserving young neighbour, let us proceed 
 to the little adventure I was about to relate to you. I 
 went, as I told you, to the Temple with Mile. Rigolette 
 in order to purchase many articles necessary for the 
 comfort of the poor family in the garret, when, accident- 
 ally examining the drawers of an old secretaire exposed 
 for sale, I found the fragment of a letter in a female 
 hand, in which the writer bitterly deplored the destitu- 
 tion to which herself and daughter were exposed in 
 consequence of the villainy of the person in whose 
 hands their money had been placed. I inquired of 
 the mistress of the shop how she became possessed 
 of the piece of furniture in question. She told me it 
 was part of a lot of very common household goods she 
 purchased of a person still young, who had evidently 
 disposed of all her effects from stern necessity, and 
 being without any other means of raising money. Both 
 ' mother and daughter, continued my informant, seemed 
 much superior to their condition, and each bore their 
 distress with a proud yet calm fortitude." 
 
 "And do you not know where these poor ladies can 
 be found, my lord ? " 
 
 " I do not, unfortunately, at the present moment, but 
 I have given directions to M. de Graiin to use every 
 effort to discover them, and, if needs must be, even to 
 apply to the police for assistance. It is just probable 
 that the unfortunate parent and child, finding them- 
 selves stripped of their little stock of furniture, may 
 have sought refuge in some obscure lodging ; and if so, 
 there is every chance of discovering their abode, since 
 the keepers of lodging-houses are obliged to write a 
 daily report of every fresh inmate they receive." 
 
 " What a singular combination of events ! " said 
 184 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 Madame d'Harville, much astonished: "Your account 
 is, indeed, a most interesting one." 
 
 "iTou have not heard all yet. In a corner of the 
 fragment of writing found in the old secretaire, are 
 these words, ' To write to Madame de Lucenay.' " 
 
 " Oh, how fortunate ! " exclaimed Madame d'Harville, 
 with much animation. " No doubt the duchess can tell 
 me all about these unfortunate ladies. But then," added 
 she, thoughtfully, " I do not see, after all, how we shall 
 be able to describe them, as we do not even know their 
 name." 
 
 " Nay, it will be easy to inquire whether she is 
 acquainted with a widow still in the prime of life, 
 whose air and manner indicate her being far superior 
 to her present circumstances, and who has a daughter 
 about sixteen years of age named Claire. I am sure it 
 was Claire the woman told me the younger female was 
 called." 
 
 " How very strange ! That is my child's name ; and 
 furnishes an additional reason for my interesting myself 
 in their misfortunes." 
 
 " I forgot to tell you that the brother of this unhappy 
 widow died by his own hands a very few months ago." 
 
 Madame d'Harville was silent for some minutes, as 
 though reflecting deeply ; at length she said : 
 
 "If Madame de Lucenay be in any way acquainted 
 with this unfortunate family, these particulars will be 
 quite sufficient to identify them; besides which the 
 lamentable end of the brother must have fixed every 
 circumstance connected with them more strongly in 
 her memory. How impatient I feel to question the 
 duchess on the subject! I will write her a note this 
 very evening, begging of her not to go out to-morrow 
 till I have seen her. Who can these interesting people 
 be? From your account, my lord, I should say they 
 certainly belong to the higher class of society, and must, 
 therefore, feel their present distress so much the more 
 185 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 keenly. Alas, to such as they the falling into such 
 utter destitution must inflict a deeper, keener sting ! " 
 
 " And all their sufferings have arisen from the 
 knavery of an unprincipled scoundrel, — a notary, named 
 Jacques Ferrand. But I am in possession of other acts 
 of villainy on his part equally black with this." 
 
 "That is the name of the person acting as the 
 legal adviser both of my husband and mother-in-law," 
 exclaimed Clemence ; " and, indeed, my lord, I think 
 you must be mistaken in your opinion of him, for he 
 is universally regarded as a person of the strictest 
 honour and probity." 
 
 " I assure you I have the most irrefragable proofs 
 of what I assert. Meanwhile let me beg of you to be 
 perfectly silent as to the character I assign this man, 
 who is as subtle as unprincipled ; and the better to 
 unmask his nefarious practices, it is necessary he 
 should be allowed to think himself secure from all 
 danger ; a few days will enable me to perfect my 
 schemes for bringing him to a severe reckoning. He 
 it was who brought such unmerited affliction upon the 
 interesting females I have been telling you of, by 
 defrauding them of a large sum, which, it appears, 
 was consigned to his care by the brother of the 
 unfortunate widow." 
 
 " And this money ? " 
 
 " Was their sole dependence." 
 
 " This is, indeed, a crime of the most heinous descrip- 
 tion ! " 
 
 " 'Tis, indeed, of blackest die," exclaimed Rodolph, 
 " having nothing to extenuate it, and originating neither 
 in passion nor necessity. The pangs of hunger will often 
 instigate a man to commit a theft, the thirst for revenge 
 lead on to murder ; but this legal hypocrite is passing 
 rich, and invested, by common consent, with a character 
 of almost priestly sanctity, while his countenance and 
 manners are moulded with such studious art as to inspire 
 186 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 and command universal confidence. The assassin kills 
 you at a blow, — this villain tortures, prolongs your suf- 
 ferings, and leaves you, after the death-blow has been 
 inflicted, to sink under the gnawing agonies of want, 
 misery, and despair. Nothing is safe from the cupidity 
 of such a man as Ferrand : the inheritance of the orphan, 
 the hard-earned savings of the laborious poor, — all 
 excite alike his unprincipled avarice ; and that which in 
 other men arises out of the impulse of the moment is 
 with this wretch the result of a cold and unrelenting cal- 
 culation. You entrust him with your wealth, — to see it 
 is to covet it, and with him to desire is to possess him- 
 self, without the smallest scruple. Totally unheeding 
 your future wretchedness, the grasping deceiver deprives 
 you of your property, and without a pang consigns you to 
 beggary and destitution. Suppose that, by a long course 
 of labour and privations, you have contrived to amass a 
 provision against the wants and infirmities of old age ; 
 well, no sooner is this cold-blooded hypocrite made the 
 depositary of your little treasure, than he unhesitatingly 
 appropriates it, leaving you to drag on a miserable exis- 
 tence, without a morsel of bread but such as the hand of 
 charity doles out to you. Nor is this all. Let us con- 
 sider the fearful consequences of these infamous acts of 
 spoliation. Take the case of the widow of whom we 
 were speaking just now, — imagine her dying of grief 
 and a crushed spirit, the results of her heavy afflictions ; 
 she leaves a young and helpless girl to struggle alone in 
 the world, — a weak and delicate being, whose very love- 
 liness increases her dangers and difficulties. Without 
 friends or support, unaccustomed to the rough realities 
 of life, the poor orphan has but to choose between starva- 
 tion and dishonour. In an evil hour she falls, and becomes 
 a lost, degraded creature. And thus Jacques Ferrand, 
 by his dishonest appropriation of the things committed 
 to his charge, occasions not only the death of the mother, 
 but the dishonour of the child ; he destroys the body of 
 187 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 the one and the soul of the other, — and again, I say, not 
 with the merciful despatch of the assassin's dagger, but 
 by the slow tortures of lingering cruelty ! " 
 
 Clemence listened in profound silence, not unmixed 
 with surprise, at hearing Rodolph express himself with 
 so much indignation and bitterness. Accustomed only 
 to witness the most urbane suavity in the tone and man- 
 ner of her guest, she felt more than ordinarily struck by 
 his vehement and excited language ; which, however, * 
 seemed to show his intense abhorrence of all crooked 
 and nefarious dealings. 
 
 " I must entreat your pardon, madame," said the prince, 
 after a pause, " for having permitted myself to use so 
 much warmth in the presence of a lady ; but, in truth, I 
 could not restrain my indignation when I reflected on all 
 the horrible dangers which may overwhelm your future 
 protegees. But, be assured, it is quite impossible to 
 exaggerate those fearful consequences brought about by 
 ruin and misery." 
 
 " Indeed ! Indeed, my lord, you rather merit my 
 thanks, for having so powerfully and energetically aug- 
 mented, if possible, the tender pity I feel for this unfor- 
 tunate parent, whose heart is, doubtless, wrung with 
 anguish rather for her young and innocent daughter 
 than for herself. It is, in truth, a fearful situation. 
 But we shall soon be enabled to relieve her mind, and 
 rescue her from her present misery, shall we not, my 
 lord? Oh, yes, I feel assured we shall, — and hencefor- 
 ward their happiness shall be my care. • I am rich, — 
 though not so much so as I could wish, now that I per- 
 ceive how worthily wealth may be employed ; but should 
 there be occasion for further aid than I am enabled to 
 afford, I will apply to M. d'Harville in their behalf. I 
 will render him so happy, that he shall find it impossible 
 to refuse any of my new caprices, and I foresee that I 
 shall have plenty of them. You told me, did you not, 
 my lord, that our protegees are proud ? So much the 
 188 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 better. I am better pleased to find them so ; for pride 
 under unmerited misfortune always betokens a great and 
 elevated mind. But I shall be able to overreach them, 
 for I will so contrive that they shall be relieved from 
 their present misery without ever guessing to what chan- 
 nel they owe their deliverance from misery. You think 
 I shall find it difficult to deceive them ? So much the 
 better. Oh, I have my own plans of action, I can assure 
 you, my lord ; and you will see that I shall be deficient 
 neither in cunning nor address." 
 
 " I fully anticipate the most Machiavelian system of 
 ruse and deep combination," said Rodolph, smiling. 
 
 " But we must, first of all, discover where they are. 
 Oh, how I wish to-morrow were come ! When I leave 
 Madame de Lucenay, I shall go directly to their old resi- 
 dence, make inquiries of their late neighbours, collect all 
 the information I can, and form my own conclusions from 
 all I see and hear. I should feel so proud and delighted 
 to work out all the good I intend to these poor ladies, 
 without being assisted by any person ; and I shall accom- 
 plish it, — I feel sure I shall. This adventure affects me 
 greatly. Poor things ! I seem even to feel a livelier 
 interest in their misfortunes when I think of my own 
 child." 
 
 Deeply touched at this charitable warmth, Rodolph 
 smiled with sincere commiseration at seeing a young 
 creature of scarcely twenty years of age, seeking to lose, 
 amid occupations so pure and noble, the sense of the 
 severe domestic afflictions which bore so heavily upon 
 her. The eyes of Cle'mence sparkled with enthusiasm, a 
 delicate carnation tinged her pale cheek, while the ani- 
 mation of her words and gestures imparted additional 
 beauty to her lovely countenance. 
 
 The close and silent scrutiny of Rodolph did not escape 
 the notice of Madame d'Harville. She blushed, looked 
 down for a few minutes, then, raising her eyes in sweet 
 confusion, said : 
 
 • 189 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " I see, my lord, you are amused at my girlish eager- 
 ness. But, in truth, I am impatient to taste those 
 sources of delight which are about to gild an existence 
 hitherto so replete with grief and sadness, and, unfortu- 
 nately, so useless to every one. Alas, this was not the 
 life my early dreams had pictured to me, — the one 
 great passion of life I must for ever renounce ! Though 
 young, I must live, and act, and think, as though scores 
 of years had passed over my head. Alas, alas ! " con- 
 tinued Cle*mence, with a sigh, " to me is denied the dear 
 domestic joys my heart could so fondly have prized." 
 After a minute's pause she resumed : " But why should 
 I dwell on such vain and fruitless regrets ? Thanks to 
 you, my lord, charity will replace the void left in my 
 heart by disappointed affection. Already have I owed 
 to your counsels the enjoyment of the most touching 
 emotions. Your words, my lord, affect me deeply, and 
 exercise unbounded influence over me. The more I 
 meditate on what you have advanced, the more I search 
 into its real depth and value, the more I am struck by 
 its vast power and truth, the more just and valuable 
 does it appear to me. Then, when I reflect that, not 
 satisfied with sympathising with sufferings of which you 
 can form no idea from actual experience, you aid me 
 with the most salutary counsels, and guide me, step by 
 step, in the new and delightful path of virtue and good- 
 ness pointed out by you to relieve a weary and worn-out 
 heart, oh, my lord, what treasure of all that is good 
 must your mind contain ! From what source have you 
 drawn so large a supply of tender pity for the woes 
 of all?" 
 
 " Nay, the secret of my sincere commiseration with 
 the woes of others consists in my having deeply suffered 
 myself, — nay, in still sighing over heavy sorrows none 
 can alleviate or cure." 
 
 " You, my lord ! Surely you cannot have tasted thus 
 bitterly of grief and misfortune ? " 
 
 190 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 " Yes, 'tis even so, I sometimes think that I have 
 been made to taste of nearly every bitter which fills our 
 cup of worldly sorrows, the better to fit me for sympa- 
 thising with all descriptions of worldly trials. Wounded 
 and sorely afflicted as a friend, a husband, and a parent, 
 what grief can there be in which I am not qualified to 
 participate ? " 
 
 " I always understood, my lord, that your late wife, 
 the grand duchess, left no child ? " 
 
 " True ; but, before I became her husband, I was the 
 father of a daughter, who died quite young. And, how- 
 ever you may smile at the idea, I can with truth assert 
 that the loss of that child has poisoned all my subse- 
 quent days. And this grief increases with my years. 
 Each succeeding hour but redoubles the poignancy of my 
 regrets, which, far from abating, appear to grow, — 
 strengthen, even as my daughter would have done had 
 she been spared me. She would now have been in her 
 seventeenth year." 
 
 " And her mother," asked Cle*mence, after a trifling 
 hesitation, " is she still living ? " 
 
 " Oh, name her not, I beseech you ! " exclaimed 
 Rodolph, whose features became suddenly overcast at 
 this reference to Sarah. " She to whom you allude is a 
 vile, unworthy woman, whose feelings are completely 
 buried beneath the cold selfishness and ambition of her 
 nature. Sometimes I even ask myself whether it is not 
 better that my child has been removed by death than 
 for her to have been contaminated by the example of 
 such a mother." 
 
 Cl^mence could not restrain a feeling of satisfaction 
 at hearing Rodolph thus express himself. " In that 
 case," said she, " I can imagine how doubly you must 
 bewail the loss of your only object of affection ! " 
 
 " Oh, how I should have doted on my child ! For it 
 seems to me that, among princes, there is always mixed 
 up with the affection we bear a son, a sort of interested 
 
 191 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 regard for the being destined to perpetuate our race, — 
 a kind of political calculation. But a daughter ! — oh, 
 she is loved for herself alone ! And when, alas ! one is 
 weary of witnessing the many fearful pictures of fallen 
 humanity an intercourse with the world compels us to 
 behold, what joy to turn from the dark pictures of guilt 
 and crime to refresh ourselves by the contemplation of 
 a young and innocent mind, and to delight in watching 
 the unfolding of all those pure and tender feelings so 
 guilelessly true to nature ! The proudest, the happiest 
 mother feels not half the exquisite joy of a father in 
 observing the gradual development of a daughter's char- 
 acter. A mother will dwell with far greater rapture 
 on the bold and manly qualities of a son. For have 
 you never remarked that the cause which still further 
 cements the doting affection of a mother for her son, 
 or a father for his daughter, is the feeling of either 
 requiring or bestowing aid and protection ? Thus, the 
 mother looks upon her son in the light of a future sup- 
 port and protection ; while the father beholds in his 
 young and helpless daughter a weak and fragile creature, 
 clinging to him for safety, counsel, and protection from 
 all the storms of life." 
 
 " True, my lord, — most true ! " 
 
 " But what avails it thus to dwell on sources of 
 delight for ever lost to me ? " cried Rodolph, in a 
 voice of the deepest dejection. His mournful tones 
 sunk into the very heart of Cl^mence, who could not 
 restrain a tear, which trickled slowly down her cheek. 
 After a short pause, during which the prince, making a 
 powerful effort to restrain himself, and feeling almost 
 ashamed of allowing his feelings thus to get the better 
 of him in the presence of Madame d'Harville, said, with 
 a smile of infinite sadness, " Your pardon, madame, 
 for thus allowing myself to be drawn away by the 
 remembrance of my past griefs ! " 
 
 " I beseech you, my lord, make no apology to me ; 
 192 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 but, on the contrary, believe that I most sincerely sym- 
 pathise with your very natural regrets. Have I not a 
 right to share your griefs, for have I not made you 
 a participator in mine ? My greatest pain is, that the 
 only consolation I could offer you would be vain and 
 useless to assuage your grief." 
 
 " Not so ; the very expression of your kind com- 
 miseration is grateful and beneficial to me ; and I 
 find it a relief to disburden my mind, and tell you 
 all I suffer. But, courage ! " added Rodolph, with a 
 faint and melancholy smile ; " the conversation of this 
 evening entirely reassures me on your account. A safe 
 and healthful path is opened to you, by following which 
 you will escape the trials and dangers so fatal to many 
 of your sex, and, still more so, for those as highly 
 endowed as yourself. You will have much to endure, 
 to struggle against, and contend with ; but in propor- 
 tion to the difficulties of your position will be your 
 merit in overcoming them. You are too young and 
 lovely to escape without a severe ordeal; but, should 
 your courage ever fail you, the recollection, not only of 
 the good you have done, but also that you propose to 
 effect, will serve to strengthen your virtuous resolutions, 
 and arm you with fresh courage." 
 
 Madame d'Harville melted into tears. 
 
 "At least," said she, " promise me your counsels and 
 advice shall never fail me. May I depend on this, my 
 lord?" 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, you may. Whether near or afar off, 
 believe that I shall ever feel the most lively interest in 
 your welfare and well-doing ; and, so far as in me lies, 
 will I devote my best services to promote your happi- 
 ness, or that of the man whom I glory in calling my 
 dearest friend." 
 
 " Thanks, my lord," said Cle'mence, drying her tears, 
 "for this consoling promise. But for your generous 
 aid, I feel too well that my own strength would fail me. 
 193 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Still I bind myself now, and in your presence, faithfully 
 and courageously to perform my duty, however hard or 
 painful that duty may be." 
 
 As Cle'mence uttered these last words, a small door, 
 concealed by the hangings, suddenly opened ; and M. 
 d'Harville, pale, agitated, and evidently labouring under 
 considerable excitement, appeared before Madame d'Har- 
 ville and Rodolph. The latter involuntarily started, while 
 a faint cry escaped the lips of the astonished wife. 
 
 The first surprise over, the marquis handed to Rodolph 
 the letter received from Sarah, saying : 
 
 " Here, my lord, is the letter I but just now received 
 in your presence. Have the kindness to cast your eyes 
 over it, and afterwards commit it to the flames." 
 
 Cle'mence gazed on her husband with utter aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 " Most infamous ! " exclaimed Rodolph, indignantly, 
 as he finished the perusal of the vile scrawl. 
 
 " Nay, my lord, there is an act more dastardly even 
 than the sending an anonymous letter ; and that act 
 I have committed." 
 
 " For the love of heaven, explain yourself ! " 
 
 " Instead of at once fearlessly and candidly showing 
 you this letter, I concealed its contents from you. I 
 feigned calmness and tranquillity, while jealousy, rage, 
 and despair filled my heart. Nor is this all. To what 
 detestable meanness do you suppose, my lord, my ungov- 
 erned passions led me ? Why, to enact the part of a spy, 
 — to hide myself basely and contemptibly behind this 
 door, to overhear your conversation and espy your ac- 
 tions. Yes, hate me, despise me as you will, I merit all 
 for having insulted you by a suspicion. Oh, the writer 
 of these fiendish letters knew well the culpable weakness 
 of him to whom they were addressed. But, after all 
 I have heard, — for not a word has escaped me, and 1 
 now know the nature of the interest which attracts you 
 to frequent the Rue du Temple, — after having, by my 
 194 
 
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 mean and unworthy jealousy, given support to the base 
 calumny by believing it even for an instant, how can 
 I hope for pardon, though I sue for it upon my knees ? 
 Still, still, I venture to implore from you, so superior to 
 myself in nobleness and generosity of soul, pity, and, if 
 you can, forgiveness for the wrong I have done you ! " 
 
 " No more of this, my dear Albert," said Rodolph, 
 extending his hands towards his friend with the most 
 touching cordiality ; " you have nothing to ask pardon 
 for. Indeed, I feel quite delighted to find you have dis- 
 covered the secrets of Madame d'Harville and myself. 
 Now that all further restraint is at an end, I shall be 
 able to lecture you as much and as frequently as I choose. 
 But, what is better still, you are now installed as the 
 confidant of Madame d'Harville, — that is to say, you 
 now know what to expect from a heart so pure, so 
 generous, and so noble as hers." 
 
 "And you, Clemence," said M. d'Harville, sorrowfully, 
 to his wife, " can you forgive me my last unworthy act, 
 in addition to the just causes you already have to hate 
 and despise me ? " 
 
 " On one condition," said she, extending her hand 
 towards her husband, which he warmly and tenderly 
 pressed, " that you promise to aid me in all my schemes 
 for promoting and securing your happiness ! " 
 
 " Upon my word, my dear marquis," exclaimed 
 Rodolph, " our enemies have shown themselves bun- 
 glers after all ! They have afforded you an opportunity 
 you might never otherwise have obtained, of rightly 
 appreciating the tender devotion of your incomparable 
 wife, whose affection for you, I venture to say, has 
 shone out more brightly and steadily under the machi- 
 nations of those who seek to render us miserable, than 
 amidst all the former part of your wedded life ; so that 
 we are enabled to take a sweet revenge for the mischief 
 intended to be effected : that is some consolation, while 
 awaiting a fuller atonement for this diabolical attempt. 
 195 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 I strongly suspect the quarter from which this scheme 
 has emanated ; and however patiently I may bear my 
 own wrongs, I am not of a nature to suffer those offered 
 to my friends to remain unpunished. This, however, is 
 my affair. Adieu, madame, — our intrigue is discovered ; 
 and you will be no more at liberty to work alone in 
 befriending your protegees. But, never mind ! Before 
 long we will get up some mysterious enterprise, impos- 
 sible to be found out ; and we will even defy the mar- 
 quis, with all his penetration, to know more than we 
 choose to tell him." 
 
 After accompanying Rodolph to his carriage with 
 reiterated thanks and praises, the marquis retired to 
 his apartments without again seeing Cle'mence. 
 
 196 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 It would be difficult to describe the tumultuous and 
 opposing sentiments that agitated M. d'Harville when 
 alone. He reflected with delight on the detection of 
 the unworthy falsehood charged upon Rodolph and 
 Cle'nience ; but he was, at the same time, thoroughly 
 convinced that he must for ever forego the hope of being 
 loved by her. The more Cle'mence had proved herself, 
 in her conversation with Rodolph, resigned, full of cour- 
 age, and bent on acting rightly, the more bitterly did 
 M. d'Harville reproach himself for having, in his culpable 
 egotism, chained the lot of his unhappy young wife to 
 his own. Far from being consoled by the conversation 
 he had overheard, he fell into a train of sorrowful 
 thought and indescribable anguish. 
 
 Riches, without occupation, bring with them this 
 wretchedness. Nothing can divert it, nothing relieve it, 
 from the deepest feelings of mental torture. Not being 
 compulsorily preoccupied by cares for the future or daily 
 toil, it is utterly exposed to heavy moral affliction. Able 
 to acquire all that money can purchase, it desires or 
 regrets with intense violence — 
 
 " What gold could never buy." 
 
 The mental torture of M. d'Harville was intense, for, 
 after all, what he desired was only what was just, and 
 actually legal, — the society, if not the love, of his wife. 
 
 But, wnen placed beside the inexorable refusal of 
 197 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Cle'mence, he asked himself if there was not the bit- 
 terest derision in these words of the law : The wife 
 belongs to her husband. 
 
 To what influence, to what means could he have 
 recourse to subdue this coldness, this repugnance, which 
 turned his whole existence into one long punishment, 
 since he could not — ought not — would not love any 
 woman but his wife ? 
 
 He could not but see in this, as in many other posi- 
 tions of conjugal life, the simple will of the husband or 
 the wife imperatively substituted, without appeal or possi- 
 bility of prevention, for the sovereign will of the law. 
 
 To the paroxysms of vain anger there succeeded a 
 melancholy depression. The future weighed him down, 
 heavy, dull, and chill. He only saw before him the 
 grief that would doubtless render more frequent the 
 attacks of his fearful malady. 
 
 " Oh," he exclaimed, at once in tears and despair, 
 " it is my fault, — it is my fault ! Poor, unhappy girl ! 
 I deceived her, — shamefully deceived her ! She must, 
 — she ought to hate me ; and yet but now she displayed 
 the deepest interest in me, and, instead of contenting 
 myself with that, my mad passion led me away, and I 
 became tender. I spoke of my love, and scarcely had 
 my lips touched her hand than she became startled, and 
 bounded with fright. If I could for a moment have 
 doubted the invincible repugnance with which I inspire 
 her, what she said to the prince must for ever destroy 
 that illusion. Ah, it is frightful, — frightful! By what 
 right has she confided to him this hideous secret ? It is 
 an unworthy betrayal! By what right? — alas, by the 
 right the victim has to complain of its executioner ! Poor 
 girl ! So young, — so loving ! All she could find most 
 cruel to say against the horrid existence I have entailed 
 upon her was, that such was not the lot of which she had 
 dreamed, and that she was very young to renounce all 
 hopes of love ! I know Cl^mence, and the word she 
 198 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
 gave me, — the word she gave to the prince, — she will 
 abide by for ever. She will be to me the tenderest of 
 sisters ! Well, is not my position still most enviable ? 
 To the cold and constrained demeanour which existed 
 between us will succeed affectionate and gentle inter- 
 course, whilst she might have treated me always with 
 icy disdain of which it was impossible that I could com- 
 plain. So, then, I will console myself by the enjoyment 
 of what she offers to me. Shall I not be too happy 
 then ? — too happy ? Ah, how weak I am ! How cowardly ! 
 Is she not my wife, after all ? Is she not mine and mine 
 only ? Does not the law recognise my right over her ? 
 My wife refuses, but is not the right on my side ? " he 
 interrupted himself, with a burst of sardonic laughter. 
 
 "Oh, yes, — be violent, eh? What, another infamy? 
 But what can I do? For I love her yet, — love her to 
 madness ! I love her and her only ! I want but her, — 
 her love, and not the lukewarm regard of a sister. Ah, 
 at last she must have pity ; she is so kind, and she will 
 see how unhappy I am ! But no, no ! Never ! Mine 
 is a case of estrangement which a woman never can 
 surmount. Disgust, — yes, disgust, — I cannot but 
 see it, — disgust ! I must convince myself that it is my 
 horrid infirmity that frightens her, and always must, — 
 always must!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, in his fearful 
 excitement. 
 
 After a moment of gloomy silence, he continued : 
 " This anonymous attack, which accused the prince and 
 my wife, comes from the hand of an enemy ; and yet, 
 but an hour ago, before I saw through it, I suspected him. 
 Him ! — to believe him capable of such base treachery ! 
 And my wife, too, I included in the same suspicion ! Ah, 
 jealousy is incurable ! And yet I must not abuse myself. 
 If the prince, who loves me as his best and dearest friend, 
 has made Clemence promise to occupy her mind and 
 heart in charitable works, if he promises her his advice, 
 his support, it is because she requires advice, needs sup- 
 199 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 port. And, indeed, lovely and young, and surrounded 
 as she is, and without that love in her heart which pro- 
 tects and even almost excuses her wrongs through mine, 
 which are so atrocious, must she not fall ? Another 
 torturing thought ! What I have suffered when I 
 thought her guilty, — fallen, — Heaven knows what 
 agony ! But, no ; the fear is vain ! Clemence has 
 sworn never to fail in her duties, and she will keep her 
 promise, — strictly keep it ! But at what a price ! At 
 what a price ! But now, when she turned towards me 
 with affectionate language, what agony did I feel at the 
 sight of her gentle, sad, and resigned smile ! How much 
 this return to me must have cost ! Poor love ! how lovely 
 and affecting she seemed at that moment ! For the first 
 time I felt a fierce remorse, for, up to that moment, 
 her haughty coldness had sufficiently avenged her. Oh, 
 wretch ! — wretch that I am ! " 
 
 After a long and sleepless night, spent in bitter re- 
 flections, the agitation of M. d'Harville ceased, as if by 
 enchantment. He had come to an unalterable resolution. 
 He awaited daybreak with excessive impatience. 
 
 Early in the morning he rang for his valet de chambre. 
 
 When old Joseph entered his master's room, to his 
 great surprise he heard him hum a hunting song, — a 
 sign, as rare as certain, that M. d'Harville was in good 
 humour. 
 
 " Ah, M. le Marquis," said the faithful old servant, 
 quite affected, " what a charming voice you have ! 
 What a pity that you do not sing more frequently ! " 
 
 " Really, Joseph, have I a charming voice ? " said M. 
 d'Harville, smiling. 
 
 "If M. le Marquis had a voice as hoarse as a night 
 raven or as harsh as a rattle, I should still think he had 
 a charming voice." 
 
 " Be silent, you flatterer ! " 
 
 200 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
 " Why, when you sing, M. le Marquis, it is a sign you 
 are happy, and then your voice sounds to rue the most 
 beautiful music in the world." 
 
 " In that case, Joseph, my old friend, prepare to open 
 your long ears." 
 
 " What do you mean, sir ? " 
 
 " You may enjoy every day the music which you call 
 charming, and of which you seem so fond." 
 
 "What! You will be happy every day, M. le Mar- 
 quis ? " exclaimed Joseph, clasping his hands with 
 extreme delight. 
 
 " Every day, my old Joseph, happy every day. Yes, 
 no more sorrow, — no more sadness. I can tell you, 
 the only and discreet confidant of my troubles, that I 
 am at the height of happiness. My wife is an angel of 
 goodness, and has asked my forgiveness for her past 
 estrangement, attributing it (can ycu imagine ?) to 
 jealousy." 
 
 " To jealousy ? " 
 
 "Yes, absurd suspicions, excited by anonymous 
 letters." 
 
 "How shameful!" 
 
 " You understand ? Women have so much self-love, 
 
 — a little more and we should have been separated ; 
 but, fortunately, last evening she explained all frankly 
 to me, and I disabused her mind. To tell you her 
 extreme delight would be impossible, for she loves me, 
 
 — oh, yes, she loves me ! The coldness she evinced 
 towards me lay as cruelly on herself as on me, and 
 now, at length, our distressing separation has ended. 
 Only conceive my delight ! " 
 
 " Can it be true ? " cried Joseph, with tears in his 
 eyes. " Can it really be true, M. le Marquis ? And 
 now your life will be happy, for it was only my lady's 
 love that you required, or, rather, since her estrange- 
 ment was your sole misery, as you told me." 
 
 " And to whom but you should I have told it, my 
 201 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 worthy old Joseph ? Do not you possess, also, a still 
 sadder secret ? But do not let us say anything more 
 of sorrows now, — it is too bright a time. You see, 
 perhaps, that I have been weeping ? It is because this 
 happiness has come over me so suddenly, when I so little 
 anticipated it ! How weak I am ! — am I not ? " 
 
 " Well, well, M. le Marquis, you may weep for joy 
 as much as you please, for you have wept long enough 
 for pain ; and now see, do not I do as you do ? They 
 are right sort of tears, and I would not give them for ten 
 years more of life. I have now but one fear, and that is, 
 not to be able to prevent myself from falling at the feet 
 of Madame la Marquise the first time I see her." 
 
 " Silly old fellow ! Why you are as weak as your 
 master. And now I have but one fear." 
 
 « And what is that ? " 
 
 " That this will not last ; I am too happy. What now 
 is wanting tome?" 
 
 " Nothing, — nothing, M. le Marquis, — absolutely 
 nothing." 
 
 " That is why I mistrust such perfect happiness, — too 
 complete." 
 
 " Alas ! If that is all, why, M. le Marquis — But 
 no, I dare not." 
 
 " I understand you. Well, I believe your fears are 
 vain. The change which my happiness causes me is so 
 intense, so complete, that I am almost sure of being 
 nearly cured." 
 
 « How ? " 
 
 " My doctor has told me a hundred times that a 
 violent emotion is frequently sufficient either to bring on 
 or to cure this terrible malady." 
 
 " You are right, monsieur, — you are cured, and what 
 a blessing that is ! Ah, as you say, M. le Marquis, 
 the marquise is a good angel come down from heaven ; 
 and I begin myself to be almost alarmed lest the happi- 
 ness is too great ; but now I think of it, if you only want 
 202 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
 a small matter just to annoy you, thank God, I have just 
 the very thing ! " 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 " One of your friends has very luckily had a sword- 
 wound, very slight, to be sure ; but that's all the same, 
 it is quite enough for you, as you desire to make a small 
 black spot in your too happy day." 
 
 " What do you mean, and of whom do you speak ?" 
 
 " The Duke de Lucenay." 
 
 " Is he wounded ? " 
 
 " A scratch in the arm. M. the Duke came yesterday 
 to call on you, sir, and told me he should come again 
 this morning, and invite himself to a cup of tea." 
 
 " Poor Lucenay ! And why did you not tell me 
 this?" 
 
 " I could not see you last night, M. le Marquis." 
 
 After a moment's reflection, M. d'Harville resumed : 
 
 " You are right, this slight regret will, doubtless, sat- 
 isfy jealous Fate. But an idea has come across me ; I 
 should like to get up a bachelors' breakfast this morn- 
 ing of all the friends of M. de Lucenay, to celebrate the 
 fortunate result of his duel ; not anticipating such a 
 meeting, he will be delighted." 
 
 " A capital idea, M. le Marquis. Vive la joie ! Let 
 us make up for lost time. For how many shall I 
 desire the maitre d'hdtel to lay covers ? " 
 
 " For six, in the small winter dining-room." 
 
 " And the invitations ? " 
 
 " I will write them. Let a groom get his horse ready, 
 and take them instantly. It is very early, and he will 
 find everybody at home. Ring." 
 
 Joseph rang the bell. 
 
 M. d'Harville entered into his cabinet, and wrote the 
 following letter, with no other alteration than the name 
 of each invited guest. 
 
 " My dear : This is a circular, and is also an impromptu. 
 
 Lucenay is coming to breakfast with me this morning, expecting 
 203 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 only a tete-a-tete. Will you join me and several friends, whom I 
 also invite, in giving him an agreeable surprise ? 
 
 " Twelve punctually. " M. d'Harville." 
 
 A servant entered. , 
 "Desire some one to get on horseback, and deliver 
 these notes directly," said M. d'Harville; and then, 
 addressing Joseph, " Write the addresses : M. le 
 Vicomte de Saint-Remy, — Lucenay cannot get on with- 
 out him," said M. d'Harville to himself ; " M. de 
 Monville, one of the duke's travelling companions ; Lord 
 Douglas, his beloved partner at whist ; the Baron de 
 Se'zannes, one of the friends of his childhood. Have you 
 done?" 
 
 " Yes, M. le Marquis." 
 
 " Send them off, then, without losing a minute's time," 
 said M. d'Harville. 
 
 " Ah, Philippe, request M. Doublet to come and speak 
 to me." 
 
 Philippe left the room. 
 
 " Well, what is the matter with you ? " inquired M. 
 d'Harville of Joseph, who looked at him with aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 " I cannot get over it, sir ; I never saw you in such 
 spirits, — so lively ; and then you, who are usually so 
 pale, have got such a colour, and your eyes sparkle." 
 
 " Happiness, my old friend, — happiness, and noth- 
 ing else ; and you must assist me in my little plot. 
 You must go and learn of Mile. Juliette, Madame 
 d'Harville's waiting-woman, who has the care of her 
 diamonds." 
 
 " Yes, M. le Marquis, it is Mile. Juliette who has the 
 charge of them, for it is not eight days since I helped her 
 to clean them." 
 
 " Ask her to tell you the name of her lady's jeweller, 
 but not to say a word on the subject to her mistress." 
 
 " Ah, I understand, — a surprise." 
 
 " Go as quickly as possible. Here is M. Doublet." 
 201 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
 And the steward entered as Joseph quitted the 
 apartment. 
 
 " I have the honour to attend the orders of M. le 
 Marquis." 
 
 " My dear M. Doublet, I am going to alarm you," said 
 M. d'Harville, smiling ; " I shall compel you to utter 
 fearful cries of distress." 
 
 « Me, sir ? " 
 
 " You." 
 
 " I will endeavour to give satisfaction to M. le 
 Marquis." 
 
 " I am going to spend an enormous sum, M. Doublet." 
 " Why not, M. le Marquis ? We are well able to do 
 so." 
 
 " I have been planning a considerable extent of build- 
 ing. I propose to annex a gallery in the garden, on the 
 right wing of the hotel. After having hesitated at this 
 folly, of which I have not before spoken to you, I have 
 made up my mind on the point, and I wish you to send 
 to-day to my architect, desiring him to come and talk 
 over the plans with me. Well, M. Doublet, you do not 
 seem to object to the outlay." 
 
 " I can assure your lordship that I have no objection 
 whatsoever." 
 
 " This gallery is destined for f§tes, and I wish to have 
 it erected as though by enchantment ; and, as enchant- 
 ments are very dear, we must sell fifteen or twenty 
 thousand livres of income in order to meet the expendi- 
 ture, for I wish the work to be begun as speedily as 
 possible." 
 
 " I have always said there is nothing which M. le 
 Marquis wants, unless it be a certain taste. That for 
 building has the advantage of having the buildings 
 always left; as to money, M. le Marquis need not 
 alarm himself, and he may, if he pleases, build the 
 gallery." 
 
 Joseph returned. 
 
 205 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Here, M. le Marquis, is the address of the jeweller, 
 whose name is M. Baudoin," said he to M. d'Harville. 
 
 " My dear M. Doublet, will you go to this jeweller's, 
 and desire him to bring here in an hour a river of dia- 
 monds, worth, say, two thousand louis ? Women never 
 have too many jewels, now they wear gowns decorated 
 with them. You can arrange with the jeweller as to the 
 payment." 
 
 " Yes, M. le Marquis ; and I do not even yet begin to 
 groan. Diamonds are like buildings, — they remain. 
 And then, no doubt, the surprise will greatly please 
 Madame la Marquise, without counting the pleasure 
 that you yourself will experience. It is as I had the 
 honour of saying the other day, there is not in the world 
 any person whose existence can be more delightful than 
 that of M. le Marquis." 
 
 " My dear M. Doublet," said M. d'Harville, with a 
 smile, " your congratulations are always so peculiarly 
 apropos." 
 
 " That is their only merit, M. le Marquis ; and they 
 possess that merit, perhaps, because they proceed from 
 the heart. I will run to the jeweller." 
 
 As soon as he was alone, M. d'Harville began to pace 
 up and down his cabinet, with his arms folded, and his 
 eye fixed and meditative. His features suddenly changed, 
 and no longer expressed that somewhat feverish content- 
 ment of which the steward and his old servant had been 
 the dupes, but assumed a calm, sad, and chilling resolu- 
 tion. Afterwards, having paced up and down for a short 
 time, he sunk into a chair heavily, and, as though weighed 
 down with sorrow, placed his elbows on his desk, and hid 
 his face in his hands. After a moment he rose suddenly, 
 wiped a tear which moistened his red eyelid, and said 
 with effort : 
 
 " Come, come ! Courage, courage ! " 
 
 He then wrote to several persons on very trifling mat- 
 ters, and postponed various meetings for some days. The 
 206 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
 marquis had concluded this correspondence when Joseph 
 again entered, so gay, and so forgetful of himself, as to 
 hum a tune in his turn. 
 
 " M. Joseph, what a charming voice you have ! " said 
 his master, jestingly. 
 
 " Ma foi ! so much the worse, M. le Marquis, for I 
 don't care about it. I am singing so merrily within, 
 that my music must be heard without." 
 
 " Send these letters to the post." 
 
 " Yes, M. le Marquis ; but where will you receive the 
 gentlemen who are expected this morning ? " 
 
 " Here, in my cabinet ; they will smoke after break- 
 fast, and then the smell of the tobacco will not reach 
 Madame d'Harville." 
 
 At this moment the noise of carriage wheels was heard 
 in the courtyard of the hStel. 
 
 " It is Madame la Marquise going out ; she ordered 
 her carriage very early this morning," said Joseph. 
 
 " Eun and request her to be so kind and come here 
 before she goes out." 
 
 " Yes, M. le Marquis." 
 
 The domestic had scarcely left the room when M. 
 d'Harville approached a mirror, and looked at himself 
 attentively. 
 
 " Well, well," said he, in a hoarse voice, " it is there, 
 — the flushed cheeks — the bright look — joy or fever, 
 it is little consequence which, so that they are deceived ; 
 now, then, for the smile on the lips, — there are so many 
 sorts of smiles ! But who can distinguish the false from 
 the true ? Who can peep beneath the false mask, and 
 say, ' That laugh hides a dark despair, that noisy gaiety 
 conceals a thought of death ? ' Who could guess that ? 
 No one, — fortunately, no one, — no one ! Ah, yes, love 
 would never be mistaken ; his instinct would enlighten 
 him. But I hear my wife, — my wife ! Now, then, 
 sinister actor, play thy part." 
 
 Clemence entered M. d'Harville's apartment. 
 207 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Good morrow, dear brother Albert," she said, in a 
 tone full of sweetness. Then, observing the smiling 
 expression of her husband's countenance, " But what is 
 it, my dear, that gives you such a smiling air ? " 
 
 " It was because, when you entered, my dear sister, I 
 was thinking of you, and, moreover, I was under the 
 influence of an excellent resolution." 
 
 " That does not surprise me." 
 
 " What took place yesterday, — your extreme gener- 
 osity, the prince's noble conduct, — has given me much 
 food for reflection, and I am converted, — entirely con- 
 verted to your ideas." 
 
 " Indeed ! That is a happy change ! " exclaimed 
 Madame d'Harville. " Ah ! I was sure that, when I 
 appealed to your heart, to your reason, you would 
 understand me ; and now I have no doubt about the 
 future." 
 
 " Nor I either, C16mence, I assure you. Yes, since 
 my resolution last night, the future, which seemed so 
 vague and sombre, is singularly brightened and simpli- 
 fied." 
 
 " Nothing can be more natural, my dear. Now we 
 both go towards the same end, like a brother and sister, 
 mutually dependent on each other ; at the end of our 
 career we shall find each other what we are to-day. 
 The feeling will be unalterable. In a word, I wish 
 you to be happy ; and you shall be, for I have resolved 
 it there," said Cle'rnence, placing her finger on her fore- 
 head. Then she added, with charming emphasis, lower- 
 ing her hand to her heart, " No, I mistake, it is here. 
 That is the good thought that will watch over you inces- 
 santly, and myself also ; and you shall see, my brother, 
 in what the obstinacy of a devoted heart consists." 
 
 " Dear Clemence ! " said M. d'Harville with repressed 
 emotion ; then, after a moment's silence, he continued, 
 in a gay tone : 
 
 " I sent to beg you to come here before you went out, 
 208 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
 to tell you that I could not take tea with you this morn- 
 ing. I have some friends to breakfast, — a sort of 
 impromptu, — to celebrate the fortunate result of a duel 
 of poor Lucenay, who, by the way, was only very slightly 
 wounded by his adversary." 
 
 Madame d'Harville blushed when she reflected on the 
 origin of this duel, — an absurd remark addressed in her 
 presence by the Duke de Lucenay to M. Charles Robert. 
 It reminded her of an erreur of which she was ashamed, 
 and, to escape from the pain she felt, she said to her 
 husband : 
 
 " What a singular chance ! M. de Lucenay is coming 
 to breakfast with you, and I am going, perhaps rather 
 indiscreetly, to invite myself this morning to Madame 
 de Lucenay's ; for I have a great deal to say to her 
 about my two unknowns. From her, it is my intention 
 to go to the prison of St. Lazare with Madame de 
 Blinval, for you do not know all my projects ; at this 
 time I am intriguing to get admittance into the work- 
 room of the young prisoner-girls." 
 
 " You are really insatiable," said M. d'Harville, with 
 a smile ; and then he added, with a painful emotion, 
 which, despite his efforts, betrayed itself a little, " Then 
 I shall see you no more to day." 
 
 "Does it annoy you that I should go out so early?" 
 asked C16mence, quickly, astonished at the tone of his 
 voice. " If you wish it, I can put off my visit to 
 Madame de Lucenay." 
 
 The Marquis had nearly betrayed himself, but contin- 
 ued, in an affectionate tone : 
 
 " Yes, my dear little sister, I am as annoyed to see 
 you go out, as I shall be impatient to see you return, 
 and these are faults of which I shall never be cor- 
 rected." 
 
 " And you are quite right, dear ; for if you did I 
 should be very, very sorry." 
 
 The sound of a bell, announcing a visit, was now heard. 
 
 209 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 " Here is one of your guests, no doubt," said Madame 
 d'Harville. " I leave you ; but, by the way, what are 
 you going to do in the evening ? If you have no better 
 engagement, I require you to accompany me to the 
 Italian Opera ; perhaps now you will like the music 
 better." 
 
 " I am at your orders with the utmost pleasure." 
 
 " Are you going out by and by ? Shall I see you 
 before dinner ? " 
 
 " I shall not go out ; you will find me here." 
 
 " Well, then, on my return, I shall come and inquire 
 if your bachelors' breakfast has been amusing." 
 
 " Adieu, Cle'mence ! " 
 
 " Adieu, dear ! We shall soon meet again. I leave 
 you a clear house, and wish you may be as merry as 
 possible. Be very gay and lively, mind." 
 
 Having cordially shaken her husband's hand, 
 Clemence went out of one door as M. de Lucenay 
 entered by another. 
 
 " She wished me to be as merry as possible, and bade 
 me be gay ! In the word adieu, in that last cry of my 
 soul in its agony, in that word of complete and eternal 
 separation, she has understood that we should meet 
 again soon, — this evening, — and leaves me tranquilly, 
 and with a smile ! It does honour to my dissimulation. 
 By heaven, I did not think that I was so good an actor ! 
 But here is Lucenay." 
 
 210 
 
CHAPTER Yin. 
 
 THE BACHELOES' BREAKFAST. 
 
 M. de Lucenat came into the room. 
 
 The duke's wound had been so slight, that he did not 
 even carry his arm in a sling. His countenance was, as 
 usual, mirthful, yet proud ; his motion perpetual ; and 
 his restlessness, as usual, unconquerable. In spite of 
 his awkwardness, his ill-timed pleasantries, and in spite 
 of his immense nose, which gave his face a grotesque 
 and odd character, M. de Lucenay was not, as we have 
 already said, a vulgar person, thanks to a kind of natu- 
 ral dignity and bold impertinence, which never forsook 
 him. 
 
 " How indifferent you must think me to what con- 
 cerns you, my dear Henry ! " said M. d'Harville, extend- 
 ing his hand to M. de Lucenay ; " but it was only this 
 morning that I heard of your unfortunate adventure." 
 
 "Unfortunate! Pooh — pooh, marquis! I had my 
 money's worth, as they say. I really never laughed so 
 in my life. The worthy M. Robert was so religiously 
 determined to maintain that he never had a phlegmy 
 cough, in all his life, — but you do not know ! This was 
 
 the cause of the duel. The other evening at the 
 
 embassy, I asked him, before your wife and the Countess 
 Macgregor, how his phlegmy cough was ? Inde irce ! for, 
 between ourselves, he had nothing of the kind ; but it 
 was all the same, and, you may suppose, to have such 
 a thing alluded to before pretty women was very pro- 
 voking." 
 
 211 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 • 
 
 " How foolish ! Yet it is so like you ! But who is 
 this M. Robert?" 
 
 " Ma foil I have not the slightest idea in the world. 
 He is a person whom I met at the Spas ; he passed by 
 us in the winter garden at the embassy, and I called to 
 him to play off this foolish jest, to which he gallantly 
 replied the next day by giving me a touch with his 
 sword-point. This is the history of our acquaintance. 
 But let us speak no more of such follies. I have come 
 to ask you for a cup of tea." 
 
 So saying, M. de Lucenay flung himself down full 
 length on the sofa ; after which, poking the point of his 
 cane between the wall and the frame of a picture hang- 
 ing over his head, he began to move it about, and try 
 and balance the frame. 
 
 " I expected you, my dear Henry ; and I have got up 
 a surprise for you," said M. d'Harville. 
 
 " Ah, bah ! and in what way ? " exclaimed M. de 
 Lucenay, giving to the picture a very doubtful kind of 
 balance. 
 
 " You will unquestionably unhook that picture, and 
 let it down on your head." 
 
 " Pardieu ! I believe you are right. What an eagle's 
 eye you have ! But, tell me, what is this surprise of 
 yours ? " 
 
 " I have invited some of our friends to come and 
 breakfast with us ! " 
 
 " Really ! Well, that is capital ! Bravo, marquis, — 
 bravissimo ! ultra-bravissimo ! " exclaimed M. de Luce- 
 nay, in a lusty voice, and beating the sofa cushions with 
 his cane with all his might. " And who shall we 
 have, — Saint-Remy ? No, I recollect ; he has been 
 in the country for some days. What the devil can 
 he be pattering about in the country in the mid-winter 
 for?" 
 
 " Are you sure he is not in Paris ? " 
 " Quite sure ; for I wrote to him to go out with me, 
 212 
 
THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST. 
 
 and learned he was absent; and so I fell back upon 
 Lord Douglas, and Sezannes." 
 
 " Nothing can be better ; they breakfast with us." 
 
 " Bravo ! bravo ! bravo ! " exclaimed M. de Lucenay 
 again, with lusty lungs ; and then, wriggling and twist- 
 ing himself on the sofa, he accompanied his cries with 
 a series of fishlike bounds and springs, which would 
 have made a boatman envious. The acrobatic exercises 
 of the Duke de Lucenay were interrupted by the arrival 
 of M. de Saint-Remy. 
 
 " There was no occasion to ask if Lucenay was here," 
 said the viscount, gaily; "one could hear him below 
 stairs." 
 
 " What ! Is it you, graceful sylvan, country swain, — 
 wolf of the woods ? " exclaimed the duke, in his surprise, 
 and sitting up suddenly. " I thought you were in the 
 country ! " 
 
 " I came back yesterday ; and, having this instant 
 received D'Harville's invitation, I have hastened hither, 
 quite delighted to make one in so pleasant a surprise." 
 And M. de Saint-Remy extended his hand to M. de 
 Lucenay, and then to the marquis. 
 
 " Let me thank you for your speed, my dear Saint- 
 Remy. Is it not natural ? The friends of Lucenay 
 ought to rejoice in the fortunate result of this duel, 
 which, after all, might have had very serious results." 
 
 " But," resumed the duke, doggedly, " what on earth 
 have you been doing in the country in the middle of 
 winter, Saint-Remy ? It mystifies me." 
 
 " How inquisitive he is ! " said the viscount, address- 
 ing M. d'Harville ; and then, turning to the duke, " I 
 am anxious to wean myself gradually from Paris, as 
 I am soon to quit it." 
 
 " Ah, yes, the beautiful idea of attaching you to the 
 legation from France to Gerolstein ! Pray leave off 
 those silly ideas of diplomacy ! You will never go. 
 My wife says so, everybody says the same." 
 
 213 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " I assure you that Madame de Lucenay is mistaken, 
 as well as all the rest of the world." 
 
 " She told you, in my presence, that it was a folly." 
 
 " How many have I committed in my life ? " 
 
 " Yes, elegant, charming follies, true ; — such as people 
 said would ruin you in your Sardanapalian magnificences, 
 
 — that I admit. But to go and bury yourself alive in 
 such a court, — at Gerolstein ! What an idea ! Psha ! 
 It is a folly, an absurdity ; and you have too much good 
 sense to commit absurdities." 
 
 " Take care, my dear Lucenay. When you abuse this 
 German court, you will get up a quarrel with D'Harville, 
 the intimate friend of the grand duke regnant, who, more- 
 over, received me with the best possible grace at the 
 embassy, where I was presented to him." 
 
 " Really, my dear Henry," said M. d'Harville, " if you 
 knew the grand duke as I know him, you would under- 
 stand that Saint-Remy could have no repugnance to 
 passing some time at Gerolstein." 
 
 " I believe you, marquis, although they do say that he 
 is very haughty and very peculiar, your grand duke ; but 
 that will not hinder a don like Saint-Remy, the finest 
 sifting of the finest flour, from being unable to live 
 anywhere but in Paris. It is in Paris only that he is 
 duly appreciated." 
 
 The other guests of M. d'Harville now arrived, when 
 Joseph entered, and said a few words in a low voice to 
 his master. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the marquis, " will you allow me ? 
 
 — it is my wife's jeweller, who has brought some dia- 
 monds to select for her, — a surprise. You understand 
 that, Lucenay ? We are husbands of the old sort, you 
 and I." 
 
 " Ah, pardieu ! If it is a surprise you mean," shouted 
 the duke, " my wife gave me one yesterday, and a 
 famous one too ! " 
 
 " Some magnificent present ? " 
 
 214 
 
THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST. 
 
 "She asked me for a hundred thousand francs 
 (4,000?.)-" 
 
 " And you are such a magnifico — you — " 
 
 " Lent them to her ; they are advanced as mortgage 
 on her Arnouville estate. Right reckonings make good 
 friends, — but that's by the by. To lend in two hours 
 a hundred thousand francs to a friend who requires that 
 sum is what I call pretty, but rare. Is it not prodigal, 
 you who are a connoisseur in loans ? " said the duke, 
 laughingly, to Saint-Remy, little thinking of the cutting 
 purport of his words. 
 
 In spite of his effrontery, the viscount blushed 
 slightly, and then replied, with composure: 
 
 " A hundred thousand francs ? — that is immense ! 
 What could a woman ever want with such a sum as a 
 hundred thousand francs ? As for us men, that is quite 
 a different matter." 
 
 " Ma foi ! I really do not know what she could want 
 with such a sum as that. But that's not my affair. 
 Some arrears for the toilet, probably ? The trades- 
 people hungry and annoying, — -that's her affair. And, 
 as you know very well, my dear Saint-Remy, that, as it 
 was I who lent my wife the money, it would have been 
 in the worst possible taste in me to have inquired the 
 purpose for which she required it." 
 
 " Yet," said the viscount, with a laugh, " there is 
 usually a singular curiosity on the part of those who 
 lend money to know what is done with it." 
 
 "Parbleu/ Saint-Remy," said M. d'Harville, "you 
 have such exquisite taste, that you must help me to 
 choose the ornament I intend for my wife. Your ap- 
 probation will consecrate my choice ; your decisions are 
 sovereign in all that concerns the fashion." 
 
 The jeweller entered, bringing with him several caskets 
 of gems in a large leather bag. 
 
 " Ah, it is M. Baudoin ! " said M. de Lucenay. 
 
 " At your grace's service." 
 
 215 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " I am sure that it is you who ruined my wife with 
 your dazzling and infernal temptations," said M. de 
 Lucenay. 
 
 " Madame la Duchesse has only had her diamonds 
 reset this winter," said the jeweller, slightly embar- 
 rassed ; " and now, as I came to M. le Marquis, I left 
 them with her grace." 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy knew that Madame de Lucenay, to 
 aid him, had changed her jewels for false stones. He 
 was disagreeably embarrassed at this rencontre, but 
 said, boldly : 
 
 " How curious these husbands are ! — don't answer 
 any inquisitive interrogatories, M. Baudoin." 
 
 "Curious; ma foil no," said the duke; "it is my 
 wife who pays. She can afford all her whims, for she 
 is much richer than I am." 
 
 During this conversation, M. Baudoin had displayed 
 on a table several superb necklaces of rubies and 
 diamonds. 
 
 " What a fine water, and how exquisitely those stones 
 are cut ! " said Lord Douglas. 
 
 " Alas, sir ! " said the jeweller, " I employed in this 
 work one of the most skilful lapidaries in Paris, named 
 Morel ; but, unfortunately, he has become insane, and I 
 shall never find such another workman. My matcher of 
 stones says that, in all probability, it was his wretched 
 condition that deprived the man of his senses, poor 
 fellow ! " 
 
 " Wretched condition ! What ! do you trust diamonds 
 to people in distress ? " 
 
 " Certainly, sir ; and there is no instance of a lapidary 
 having ever pilfered anything, however miserable and 
 destitute his condition." 
 
 " How much for this necklace ? " inquired M. 
 d'Harville. 
 
 " M. le Marquis will observe that the stones are of a 
 splendid water and cut, and nearly all of a size." 
 216 
 
THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST. 
 
 " These oratorical prefaces threaten your purse," said 
 M. de Saint-Remy, with a laugh. " Now, my dear D'Har- 
 ville, look out for a high price." 
 
 " Come, M. Baudoin, have a conscience, and ask the 
 price you mean to take ! " said M. d'Harville. 
 
 " I will not haggle with your lordship. The lowest 
 price is forty-two thousand francs (11,680/.)." 
 
 »" Gentlemen," exclaimed M. de Lucenay, " let us who 
 are married admire D'Harville in silence. A man who 
 contrives a surprise for his wife to the amount of forty- 
 two thousand francs ! Diable ! we must not noise that 
 abroad, or it would be a detestable precedent." 
 
 " Laugh on, gentlemen, as much as you please," said 
 the marquis, gaily. " I love my wife, and am not 
 ashamed to confess it ; on the contrary, I boast of it." 
 
 " It is plain enough to be seen," said M. de Saint- 
 Remy ; " such a present speaks more eloquently than all 
 the protestation in the world." 
 
 " I will take this necklace, then," said M. d'Harville, 
 "if the setting of black enamel seems to you in good 
 taste, Saint-Remy." 
 
 " Oh, it sets off the brilliancy of the stones ; it is 
 exquisitely devised." 
 
 " Then this it shall be," said M. d'Harville. " You 
 will settle, M. Baudoin, with M. Doublet, my man of 
 business." 
 
 " M. Doublet told me as much, my lord marquis," 
 said the jeweller, who quitted the apartment, after 
 having packed up his bag without counting the jewels 
 which he had brought (such was his confidence), and 
 notwithstanding M. de Saint-Remy had for a long time 
 and curiously handled and examined them during the 
 interview. 
 
 M. d'Harville gave the necklace to Joseph, who was 
 waiting, and said to him, in a low tone : 
 
 " Mile. Juliette must put these diamonds cleverly 
 away with those of her mistress, so that la marquise 
 217 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 may not suspect; and then her surprise will be the 
 greater." 
 
 At this moment the maitre d'hote! announced that 
 the breakfast was ready ; and the guests, passing into 
 the dining-room, seated themselves. 
 
 " Do you know, my dear D'Harville," said M. de 
 Lucenay, " that this house is one of the most elegant 
 and best arranged in Paris ?" 
 
 " It is very convenient, certainly, but we want room ; 
 I have a plan to add a gallery on the garden. Madame 
 d'Harville wishes to give some grand balls, and our 
 salons are not large enough. Then, I think, nothing is 
 more inconvenient than the encroachments of fetes on 
 the apartments one usually occupies, and from which, 
 on such occasions, you are necessarily driven." 
 
 " I am quite of D'Harville's opinion," said M. de 
 Saint-Remy ; " nothing is more wretched, more trades- 
 manlike, than these movings, compelled by the coming 
 of balls and concerts. To give f£tes, really of the first 
 class, without inconveniencing oneself, there must be 
 devoted to their uses peculiar and special suites of 
 apartments ; and then vast and splendid rooms, devoted 
 to a magnificent ball, ought to assume an appearance 
 wholly distinct from that of ordinary salons. There is 
 the same difference between these two sets of apart- 
 ments as between a monumental fresco-painting and a 
 sketch on a painter's easel." 
 
 "He is right," said M. d'Harville. "What a pity, 
 gentlemen, that Saint-Remy has not twelve or fifteen 
 hundred thousand livres a year ! What wonders he 
 would create for our admiration ! " 
 
 " Since we have the happiness to possess a repre- 
 sentative government," said the Duke de Lucenay, 
 " the country ought to vote a million or two a year 
 to Saint-Remy, and authorise him to represent in Paris 
 the French taste and elegance, which should decide the 
 taste and elegance of all Europe, — all the world." 
 218 
 
THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST. 
 
 " Adopted ! " cried the guests in chorus. 
 
 "And we would raise these annual millions as com- 
 pulsory taxes on those abominable misers, who, being 
 possessors of colossal fortunes, should be marked down, 
 accused, and convicted of living like gripe-farthings," 
 added M. de Lucenay. 
 
 " And as such," added M. d'Harville, " condemned to 
 defray those splendours which they ought to display." 
 
 " Not including that these functions of high priest, or, 
 rather, grand master of elegance, which would devolve 
 on Saint-Remy," continued M. de Lucenay, " would 
 have, by imitation, an enormous influence on the gen- 
 eral taste." 
 
 " He would be the type which all would seek to 
 resemble." 
 
 " That is evident." 
 
 " And, in endeavouring to imitate him, taste would 
 become purified." 
 
 " At the time of the Renaissance taste became uni- 
 versally excellent, because it was modelled on that of 
 the aristocracy, which was exquisite." 
 
 " By the serious turn which the question has taken," 
 said M. d'Harville, gaily, "I see that we have only to 
 address a petition to the Chambers for the establishment 
 of the office of grand master of French elegance." 
 
 " And as the Deputies have credit for possessing very 
 elevated, very artistic, and very magnificent ideas, of 
 course it will be voted by acclamation." 
 
 " Whilst we are waiting the decision which shall 
 establish as a right the supremacy which Saint-Remy 
 exercises in fact," said M. d'Harville, "I will ask him 
 his opinion as to the gallery which I propose to erect ; 
 for I have been struck with his ideas as to the right 
 splendour of f^tes." 
 
 " My faint lights are at your service, D'Harville." 
 
 "And when shall we commence our magnificences, 
 my dear fellow ? " 
 
 219 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Next year, I suppose, for 1 intend to begin my 
 works without delay." 
 
 " How full of projects you are ! " 
 
 " Ma fyi ! I have others also ; I contemplate an entire 
 alteration of Val-Richer." 
 
 " Your estate in Burgundy ? " 
 
 " Yes ; there is much that may be done there, if, 
 indeed, God grants me life." 
 « Poor old fellow ! " 
 
 " Have you not recently bought a farm near Val- 
 Richer to complete your ring-fence ? " 
 
 " Yes, a very nice thing, to which I was advised by 
 my notary." 
 
 "And who is this rare and precious notary who 
 advises such admirable purchases?" 
 " M. Jacques Ferrand." 
 
 At this name a slight shudder came over M. de 
 Saint-Remy, and he frowned imperceptibly. 
 
 " Is he really the honest man they call him ? " he 
 inquired, carelessly, of M. d'Harville, who then remem- 
 bered what Rodolph had related to Cle*mence about the 
 notary. 
 
 " Jacques Ferrand ? What a question ! Why, his 
 honesty is a proverb," said M. de Lucenay. 
 
 "As respected as respectable." 
 
 " And very pious ; which does him no harm." 
 
 " Excessively stingy ; which is a guarantee for his 
 clients." 
 
 " In fact, he is one of the notaries of the ' old rock,' 
 who ask you whom you take them for when you ask 
 them for a receipt for the money which you place in 
 their hands." 
 
 " That would have no effect on me ; I would trust 
 him with my whole fortune." 
 
 " But where the deuce did Saint-Remy imbibe his 
 doubts with respect to this honest man, whose integrity 
 is proverbial ? " 
 
 220 
 
THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST. 
 
 " I am but the echo of certain vague reports ; besides, 
 I have no reason for running down this phoenix of 
 notaries. But to return to your plans, D'Harville, what 
 is it you wish to build at Yal-Richer ? I have heard 
 that the chateau is excessively beautiful." 
 
 " Make yourself easy, my dear Saint-Remy, for you 
 shall be consulted, and sooner than you expect, perhaps, 
 for I take much pleasure in such works. I think that 
 there is nothing more interesting than to have those 
 affairs in hand, which expand as you examine them, 
 and they advance, giving you occupation for years to 
 come. To-day one project, next year another, after that 
 something else springs up. Add to this a charming 
 woman whom one adores, and who shares your every 
 taste and pleasure, then, ma foil life passes sweetly 
 enough." 
 
 " I think so, pardieu ! Why, it then makes earth a 
 perfect paradise." 
 
 " Now, gentlemen," said D'Harville, when the break- 
 fast was finished, " if you will smoke a cigar in my 
 cabinet, you will find some excellent Havannahs tnere." 
 
 They rose from the table, and returned to the cabinet 
 of the marquis. The door of his bedchamber, which 
 communicated with it, was open. We have said the 
 only decoration of the room consisted of two small racks 
 of very beautiful arms. 
 
 M. de Lucenay, having lighted a cigar, followed the 
 marquis into his room. 
 
 " You see, I am still a great lover of good weapons," 
 said D'Harville to him. 
 
 " Yes, and I see you have here some splendid English 
 and French guns. Ma foi! I hardly know which to 
 admire most. Douglas," exclaimed M. de Lucenay, 
 " come and see if these fowling-pieces are not equal to 
 your crack Mantons." 
 
 Lord Douglas, Saint-Remy, and the two other guests 
 went into the marquis's room to examine the arms. 
 221 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 M. d'Harville, taking down a duelling-pistol, cocked 
 it, and said, laughingly : 
 
 " Here, gentlemen, is the universal panacea for all the 
 ills, — spleen, disgust, weariness." 
 
 And as he spoke, jestingly, he placed the muzzle to 
 his lips. 
 
 " Ma foil I prefer another specific," said Saint-Remy ; 
 " that is only good in the most desperate cases." 
 
 "Yes, but it is so speedy," said M. d'Harville. " Click! 
 and it is done ! " 
 
 " Pray be cautious, D'Harville ; these jokes are always 
 so rash and dangerous; and accident happens in an 
 instant," said M. de Lucenay. 
 
 " My dear fellow, do you think I would do so if it 
 were loaded ? " 
 
 " Of course not, but it is always imprudent." 
 
 " See, gentlemen, how it is done. You introduce the 
 muzzle delicately between the teeth, and then — " 
 
 " How foolish you are, D'Harville, to place it so ! " 
 said M. de Lucenay. 
 
 " You place your finger on the trigger — " continued 
 M. d'Harville. 
 
 « What a child ! What folly at your age ! " 
 
 " A small touch on the lock," added the marquis, 
 " and one goes — " 
 
 As he spoke the pistol went off. M. d'Harville had 
 blown his brains out. 
 
 It is impossible to paint the horror, — the stupor, of 
 M. d'Harville's guests. 
 
 Next day the following appeared in one of the news- 
 papers : 
 
 " Yesterday an event, as unforeseen as deplorable, put all the 
 Faubourg St. Germain in a state of excitement. One of those 
 imprudent acts, which every year produce such sad accidents, has 
 caused this terrible misfortune. The following are the facts 
 which we have gathered, the authenticity of which may be relied 
 upon. 
 
 222 
 
THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST. 
 
 " The Marquis d'Harville, the possessor of an immense fortune, 
 and scarcely twenty-six years of age, universally known for his 
 kind-hearted benevolence, and married but a few years to a wife 
 whom he idolised, had some friends to breakfast with him ; on 
 leaving the table, they went into M. d'Harville's sleeping apart- 
 ment, where there were several firearms of considerable value. 
 Whilst the guests were looking at some choice fowling-pieces, M. 
 d'Harville in jest took up a pistol which he thought was not 
 loaded, and placed the muzzle to his lips. Though warned by 
 his friends, he pressed on the trigger, — the pistol went off, and 
 the unfortunate young gentleman dropped down dead, with his 
 skull horribly fractured. It is impossible to describe the extreme 
 consternation of the friends of M. d'Harville, with whom but 
 a few instants before he had been talking of various plans and 
 projects, full of life, spirits, and animation. In fact, as if all the 
 circumstances of this sad event must be still more cruel by the 
 most painful contrasts, that very morning M. d'Harville, desirous 
 of agreeably surprising his wife, had purchased a most expensive 
 ornament, which he intended as a present to her. It was at this 
 very moment, when, perhaps, life had never appeared more smil- 
 ing and attractive, that he fell a victim to this most distressing 
 accident. 
 
 "All reflections on such a dreadful event are useless. We 
 can only remain overwhelmed at the inscrutable decrees of 
 Providence." 
 
 We quote this journal in order to show the general 
 opinion which attributed the death of Cle'mence's hus- 
 band to fatal and lamentable imprudence. 
 
 Is there any occasion to say that M. d'Harville alone 
 carried with him to the tomb the mysterious secret of 
 his voluntary death, — yes, voluntary and calculated 
 upon, and meditated with as much calmness as gener- 
 osity, in order that Clemence might not conceive the 
 slightest suspicion as to the real cause of his suicide ? 
 
 Thus the projects of which M. d'Harville had talked 
 with his steward and his friends, — those happy confi- 
 dences to his old servant, the surprise which he proposed 
 for his wife, were all but so many precautions for the 
 public credulity. 
 
 How could it be supposed that a man so preoccupied 
 as to the future, so anxious to please his wife, could 
 223 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 think of killing himself? His death was, therefore, 
 attributed to imprudence, and could not be attributed 
 to anything else. 
 
 As to his determination, an incurable despair had dic- 
 tated that. By showing herself as affectionate towards 
 him, and as tender as she had formerly been cold and 
 disdainful, by again appearing to entertain a high 
 regard, Cle'mence had awakened in the heart of her 
 husband deep remorse. 
 
 Seeing her so sadly resigned to a long life without 
 love, passed with a man visited by an incurable and 
 frightful malady, and utterly persuaded that, after her 
 solemn conversation, Cle'mence could never subdue the 
 repugnance with which he inspired her, M. d'Harville 
 was seized with a profound pity for his wife, and an 
 entire disgust for himself and for life. 
 
 In the exasperation of his anguish, he said to himself: 
 
 " I only love, — I never can love, — but one woman 
 in the world, and she is my own wife. Her conduct, full 
 of noble-heartedness and high mind, would but increase 
 my mad passion, if it be possible to increase it. And 
 she, my wife, can never belong to me ! She has a right 
 to despise, — to hate me ! I have, by base deceit, chained 
 this young creature to my hateful lot ! I repent it bit- 
 terly. What, then, should I do for her ? Free her from 
 the hateful ties which my selfishness has riveted upon 
 her. My death alone can break those rivets ; and I must, 
 therefore, die by my own hand ! " 
 
 This was why M. d'Harville had accomplished this 
 great, — this terrible sacrifice. 
 
 The inexorable immutability of the law sometimes 
 makes certain terrible positions irremediable, and, as in 
 this case (as divorce was unattainable), only allows the 
 injury to be effaced by an additional crime. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ST. LAZARE. 
 
 The prison of St. Lazare, especially devoted to 
 female thieves and prostitutes, is daily visited by many 
 ladies, whose charity, whose names, and whose social 
 position command universal respect. These ladies, edu- 
 cated in the midst of the splendours of fortune, — these 
 ladies, properly belonging to the best society, — come 
 every week to pass long hours with the miserable pris- 
 oners of St. Lazare ; watching in these degraded souls 
 for the least indication of an aspiration towards good, 
 the least regret for a past criminal life, and encouraging 
 the good tendencies, urging repentance, and, by the potent 
 magic of the words, Duty, Honour, Virtue, withdrawing 
 from time to time one of these abandoned, fallen, degraded, 
 despised creatures, from the depths of utter pollution. 
 
 Accustomed to delicacy and the most polished breed- 
 ing of the highest circles, these courageous females quit 
 their homes, after having pressed their lips on the virgin 
 foreheads of their daughters, pure as the angels of 
 heaven, and go into dark prisons to brave the coarse 
 indifference or infamous language of these thieves and 
 lost women. 
 
 Faithful to their tasks of high morality, they boldly 
 plunge into the tainted soil, place their hands on those 
 gangrened hearts, and, if any feeble pulsation of honour 
 reveals to them a slight hope of recovery, they contend 
 for and snatch from irrevocable perdition the wretched 
 soul of which they have never despaired. 
 
 225 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Having said so much by way of introduction to the 
 new scenes to which we are about to direct attention, we 
 will introduce the reader to St. Lazare, an immense 
 edifice of imposing and repulsive aspect, situated in the 
 Faubourg St. Denis. 
 
 Ignorant of the shocking drama that was passing at 
 her own house, Madame d'Harville had gone to the 
 prison, after having received certain information from 
 Madame de Lucenay as to the two unhappy females 
 whom the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand had plunged 
 into misery. Madame de Blinval, one of the patronesses 
 of the charity of the young prisoners, being on this day 
 unable to accompany Cldmence to St. Lazare, she had 
 gone thither alone. She was received with great atten- 
 tion by the governor and the several female superinten- 
 dents, who were distinguished by their black garments 
 and the blue riband with the silver medal which they 
 wore around their necks. One of these superintendents, 
 a female of mature age, with a serious but kind ex- 
 pression of countenance, remained alone with Madame 
 d'Harville, in a small room attached to the registry 
 office. 
 
 We may easily suppose that there is often unrec- 
 ognised devotion, understanding, commiseration, and 
 sagacity amongst the respectable females who devote 
 themselves to the humble and obscure function of super- 
 intendent of the prisoners. Nothing can be more excel- 
 lent, more practical, than the notions of order, work, 
 and duty which they endeavour to instil into the 
 prisoners, in the hope that these instructions may 
 survive their term of imprisonment. In turns indul- 
 gent and firm, patient and severe, but always just 
 and impartial, these females, incessantly in contact 
 with the prisoners, end, after the lengthened experi- 
 ence of years, by acquiring such a knowledge of the 
 physiognomy of these unfortunates that they can judge 
 of them almost invariably from the first glance, and 
 226 
 
ST. LAZARE. 
 
 can at once classify them according to their degree of 
 immorality. 
 
 Madame Armand, the inspectress who remained with 
 Madame d'Harville, possessed in a remarkable degree 
 this almost supernatural prescience as to the character of 
 the prisoners; her words and decisions had very great 
 weight in the establishment. 
 
 Madame Armand said to Cle'rnence : 
 
 " Since madame wishes me to point out to her such 
 of our prisoners as have by good conduct, or sincere 
 repentance, deserved that an interest should be taken 
 in them, I believe I can mention to her a poor girl 
 whom I believe to be more unfortunate than culpable ; for 
 I am not deceived when I say that it is not too late to 
 save this young girl, an unhappy creature of not more 
 than sixteen or seventeen years of age." 
 
 " And for what is she imprisoned ? " 
 
 " She is guilty of being found in the Champs Elyse'es 
 in the evening. As it is prohibited to such females, 
 under very severe penalties, to frequent, by day or 
 night, certain public places, and as the Champs Elyse'es 
 are in the number of the forbidden promenades, she was 
 apprehended." 
 
 " And does she appear to you interesting ? " 
 
 " I never saw features more regular, more ingenuous. 
 Picture to yourself, my lady, the face of a Virgin ; and 
 what adds still more to the expression of modesty in her 
 countenance is that, on coming here, she was dressed like 
 a peasant girl of the environs of Paris." 
 
 " She is, then, a country girl ? " 
 
 " No, my lady ; the inspectors knew her again. 
 She had lived for some weeks in a horrible abode 
 in the Cite*, from which she has been absent for two 
 or three months ; but, as she had not demanded the 
 erasure of her name from the police registries, she 
 comes under the power of that body, which has sent her 
 hither." 
 
 227 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 "But, perhaps, she had quitted Paris to try and 
 reinstate herself?" 
 
 " I think so, madame ; and it is therefore I have 
 taken such an interest in her. I have questioned her 
 as to her past life, inquired if she came from the country, 
 and told her to hope, as I did myself, that she might 
 still return to a course of good life." 
 
 " And what reply did she make ? " 
 
 " Lifting her full and melancholy blue eyes on me, 
 filled with tears, she said, with angelic sweetness, ' I 
 thank you, madame, for your kindness ; but I cannot 
 say one word as to the past ; I was apprehended, — I 
 was doing wrong, and I do not therefore complain.' 
 ' But where do you come from ? Where have you been 
 since you quitted the Cite ? If you went into the 
 country to seek an honest livelihood, say so, and prove 
 it. We will write to the prefect to obtain your liberty, 
 your name will be scratched oft' the police register, and 
 you will be encouraged in your good resolutions.' 1 1 
 beseech you, madame, do not ask me ; I cannot answer 
 you,' she replied. ' But, on leaving this house, would 
 you return again to that place of infamy ? ' 'Oh, 
 never ! ' she exclaimed. ' What, then, will you do ? ' 
 ' God only knows ! ' she replied, letting her head fall 
 on her bosom." 
 
 " Very singular ! And she expresses herself — " 
 
 " In very excellent terms, madame ; her deportment 
 is timid and respectful, but without servility ; nay, more, 
 in spite of the extreme gentleness of her voice and look, 
 there is in her accent and her attitude a sort of proud 
 sorrow which puzzles me. If she did not belong to that 
 wretched class of which she forms one, I should say 
 that her haughtiness announces a soul which has a 
 consciousness of dignity." 
 
 " But this is all a romance ! " exclaimed Cldmence, 
 deeply interested, and finding, as Rodolph had told 
 her, that nothing was more interesting than to do 
 228 
 
ST. LAZARE. 
 
 good. "And how does she behave with the other 
 prisoners ? If she is endowed with that dignity of 
 soul that you imagine, she must suffer excessively in 
 the midst of her wretched associates." 
 
 " Madame, for me, who observe all from my position, 
 and from habit, all about this young girl is a subject of 
 astonishment. Although she has been here only three 
 days, yet she already possesses a sort of influence over 
 the other prisoners." 
 
 " In so short a time ? " 
 
 "They feel for her not only interest, but almost 
 respect." 
 
 " What ! these unhappy women — " 
 
 " Have sometimes the instinct of a remarkable delicacy 
 in recognising and detecting noble qualities in others ; 
 only, they frequently hate those persons whose superi- 
 ority they are compelled to admit." 
 
 " But do they hate this poor girl ? " 
 
 " Par from it, my lady ; none of them knew her before 
 she came here. They were at first struck with her 
 appearance. Her features, although of singular beauty, 
 are, if I may so express myself, covered with a touching 
 and sickly paleness ; and this melancholy and gentle 
 countenance at first inspired them with more interest 
 than jealousy. Then she is very silent, another source 
 of surprise for these creatures, who, for the most part, 
 always endeavour to banish thought by making a noise, 
 talking, and moving about. In fact, although reserved 
 and retiring, she showed herself compassionate, which 
 prevented her companions from taking offence at her 
 coldness of manner. This is not all : about a month 
 sine. , an intractable creature, nicknamed La Louve (the 
 she- wolf), such is her violent and brutal character, be- 
 came a resident here. She is a woman of twenty years 
 of age, tall, masculine, with good-looking but strongly 
 marked features, and we are sometimes compelled to 
 place her in the black-hole to subdue her violence. The 
 229 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 day before yesterday, only, she came out of the cell, still 
 irritated at the punishment she had undergone ; it was 
 meal-time, the poor girl of whom I speak could not eat, 
 and said, sorrowfully, to her companions, ' Who will have 
 my bread V 'I will ! ' said La Louve. ' I will ! ' then 
 said a creature almost deformed, called Mont Saint-Jean, 
 who is the laughing-stock and, sometimes in spite of us, 
 the butt of the other prisoners, although several months 
 advanced in pregnancy. The young girl gave her bread 
 to this latter, to the extreme anger of La Louve. ' It 
 was I who asked you for the allowance first ! ' she 
 exclaimed, furiously. ' That is true ; but this poor 
 woman is about to become a mother, and wants it 
 more than you do,' replied the young girl. La Louve, 
 notwithstanding, snatched the bread from the hands of 
 Mont Saint-Jean, and began to wave her knife about, 
 and to vociferate loudly. As she is very evil-disposed 
 and much feared, no one dared take the part of the poor 
 Goualeuse, although all the prisoners silently sided with 
 her." 
 
 " What do you call her name, madame ? " 
 
 " La Goualeuse ; it is the name, or rather the nick- 
 name, under which they brought her here who is my 
 protegee, and will, I hope, my lady, soon be yours. 
 Almost all of them have borrowed names." 
 
 " This is a very singular one." 
 
 " It signifies in their horrid jargon ' the singer,' for 
 the young girl has, they told me, a very delightful voice ; 
 and I believe it, for her speaking tones are sweetness 
 itself." 
 
 " But how did she escape from this wretch, La Louve ? " 
 
 " Rendered still more furious by the composure of La 
 Goualeuse, she rushed towards her, uttering menaces, 
 and with her uplifted knife in her hand. All the pris- 
 oners cried out with fear ; La Goualeuse alone, looking 
 at this fierce creature without alarm, smiled at her 
 bitterly and said, in her sweet voice, ' Oh, kill me ! Kill 
 230 
 
ST. LAZABE. 
 
 me ! I am willing to die. But do not make me suffer 
 too great pain!' These words, they told me, were 
 uttered with a simplicity so affecting, that almost all 
 the prisoners burst into tears." 
 
 " I can imagine so," said Madame d'Harville, deeply 
 moved. 
 
 " The worst characters," continued the inspectress, 
 " have, fortunately, occasional good feelings. When she 
 heard these words, bearing the stamp of such painful 
 resignation, La Louve, touched (as she afterwards de- 
 clared) to her inmost core, threw her knife on the 
 ground, fell at her feet and exclaimed, ' It was wrong — 
 shameful to threaten you, Goualeuse, for I am stronger 
 than you ! You are not afraid of my knife ; you are 
 bold — brave ! I like brave people ; and now, from this 
 day forth, if any dare to molest you, let them beware, 
 for I will defend you.' " 
 
 " What a singular being ! " 
 
 " This incident strengthened La Goualeuse's influence 
 still more and more. A thing almost unexampled here/ 
 none of the prisoners accost her familiarly. The majority 
 are respectful to her, and even proffer to do for her all the 
 little services that prisoners can render to one another. 
 I spoke to some of the women of her dormitory, to learn 
 the reason of this deference which was evinced towards 
 her. 1 It is hardly explicable to ourselves,' they replied ; 
 ' but it is easy to perceive she is not one of us.' ' But 
 who told you so ? ' 'No one told us ; it is easy to dis- 
 cover it.' ' By what ? ' ' By a thousand things. In the 
 first place, before she goes to bed, she goes down on her 
 knees and says her prayers ; and if she pray, as La Louve 
 says, why, she must have a right to do so.' " 
 
 " What a strange observation ! " 
 
 "These unhappy creatures have no religious feeling, 
 and still they never utter here an impious or irreligious 
 word. You will see, madame, in all our rooms small 
 altars, where the statue of the Virgin is surrounded with 
 231 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 offerings and ornaments which they have made. Every 
 Sunday they burn a quantity of wax candles before them 
 in ex-voto. Those who attend the chapel behave remark- 
 ably well ; but generally the very sight of holy places 
 frightens them. To return to La Goualeuse ; her com- 
 panions said to me, ' We see that she is not one of us, by 
 her gentle ways, her sadness, and the manner in which 
 she talks.' 'And then,' added La Louve (who was 
 present at this conversation), abruptly, « it is quite 
 certain that she is not one of us, for this morning, in 
 the dormitory, without knowing why, we were all 
 ashamed of dressing ourselves before her.' " 
 
 " What remarkable delicacy in the midst of so much 
 degradation ! " exclaimed Madame d'Harville. 
 
 " Yes, madame, in the presence of men, and amongst 
 themselves, modesty is unknown to them, and yet they 
 are painfully confused at being seen half dressed by us 
 or the charitable visitors who come, like your ladyship, 
 to the prison. Thus the profound instinct of modesty, 
 which God has implanted in us, reveals itself even in 
 these fallen creatures, at the sight of those persons 
 whom they can respect." 
 
 " It is at least consolatory to find some good and 
 natural feelings, which are stronger even than de- 
 pravity." 
 
 " Assuredly it is ; and these women are capable of 
 devoted attachments which, were they worthily placed, 
 would be most honourable. There is also another sacred 
 feeling with them, who respect nothing, fear nothing, 
 and that is maternity. They honour it, rejoice at it ; and 
 they are admirable mothers, considering nothing a sacri- 
 fice to keep their children near them. They will undergo 
 any trouble, difficulty, or danger that they may bring them 
 up ; for, as they say, these little beings are the only ones 
 who do not despise them." 
 
 " Have they, then, so deep a sense of their abject 
 condition ? " 
 
 232 
 
ST. LAZARE. 
 
 "They are not half so much despised by others as 
 they despise themselves. With those who sincerely 
 repent, the original blot of sin is ineffaceable in their 
 own eyes, even if they should find themselves in a better 
 position; others go mad, so irremediably is this idea 
 imprinted in their minds ; and I should not be sur- 
 prised, madame, if the heartfelt grief of La Goualeuse 
 is attributable to something of this nature." 
 
 "If so, how she must suffer! — a remorse which 
 nothing can soothe!" 
 
 " Fortunately, madame, this remorse is more frequent 
 than is commonly believed. The avenging conscience 
 is never completely lulled to sleep ; or, rather, strange 
 as it may appear, sometimes it would seem that the 
 soul is awake whilst the body is in a stupor ; and this 
 remark I again made last night in reference to my 
 protege." 
 
 " What ! La Goualeuse ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " In what way ? " 
 
 "Frequently, when the prisoners are asleep, I walk 
 through the dormitories. You would scarcely believe, 
 my lady, how the countenances of these women differ in 
 expression whilst they are slumbering. A good number 
 of them, whom I have seen during the day, saucy, care- 
 less, bold, insolent, have appeared entirely changed when 
 sleep has removed from their features all exaggeration 
 of bravado ; for, alas, vice has its pride ! Oh, madame, 
 what sad revelations on those dejected, mournful, and 
 gloomy faces ! What painful sighs, involuntarily elicited 
 by some dream. I was speaking to your ladyship just 
 now of the girl they call La Louve, — an untamed, 
 untamable creature. It is but a fortnight since that 
 she abused me in the vilest terms before all the pris- 
 oners. I shrugged up my shoulders, and my indifference 
 whetted her rage. Then, in order to offend me more 
 sorely, she began to say all sorts of disgraceful things 
 233 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 of my mother, whom she had often seen come here to 
 visit me." 
 
 " What a shameful creature ! " 
 
 " I confess that, although this attack was not worth 
 minding, yet it made me feel uncomfortable. La Louve 
 perceived this, and rejoiced in it. The same night, 
 about midnight, I went to inspect the dormitories ; I 
 went to La Louve's bedside (she was not to be put in 
 the dark cell until next day) and I was struck with her 
 calmness, — I might say the sweetness of her counte- 
 nance, — compared with the harsh and daring expression 
 which is habitual to it. Her features seemed suppliant, 
 filled with regret and contrition ; her lips were half open, 
 her breast seemed oppressed, and — what appeared to me 
 incredible, for I thought it impossible — two tears, two 
 large tears, were in the eyes of this woman, whose dis- 
 position was of iron ! 1 looked at her in silence for 
 several minutes, when I heard her say, 4 Pardon ! Par- 
 don ! Her mother ! ' I listened more attentively, but all 
 I could catch, in the midst of a murmur scarcely intel- 
 ligible, was my name, ' Madame Armand,' uttered with 
 a sigh." 
 
 44 She repented, during her sleep, of having uttered 
 this bad language about your mother." 
 
 44 So I believe ; and that made me less severe. No 
 doubt she desired, through a miserable vanity, to increase 
 her natural insolence in her companions' eyes, whilst, 
 perhaps, a good instinct made her repent in her sleep." 
 
 44 And did she evince any repentance for her bad 
 behaviour next day ? " 
 
 44 Not the slightest, but conducted herself as usual, and 
 was coarse, rude, and obstinate ; but I assure your lady- 
 ship that nothing disposes us more to pity than the 
 observations I have mentioned to you. I am persuaded 
 (I may deceive myself, perhaps) that, during their 
 sleep, these unfortunates become better, or rather return 
 to themselves, with all their faults, it is true, but also 
 234 
 
ST. LAZARE. 
 
 with certain good instincts, no longer masked by the 
 detestable assumption of vice. From all I have observed, 
 I am led to believe that these creatures are generally less 
 wicked than they affect to be; and, acting upon this 
 conviction, I have often attained results it would have 
 been impossible to realise, if I had entirely despaired of 
 them." 
 
 Madame d'Harville could not conceal her surprise at 
 so much good sense, and so much just reasoning, joined 
 to sentiments of humanity so noble and so practical, in 
 an obscure inspectress of degraded women. 
 
 " But my dear madame," observed Cl^mence, " you 
 must have a great deal of courage, and much strength 
 of mind, not to be repulsed by the ungratefulness of the 
 task, which must so very seldom reward you by satis- 
 factory results ! " 
 
 " The consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and 
 encourages, and sometimes we are recompensed by happy 
 discoveries ; now and then we find some rays of light in 
 hearts which have hitherto been supposed to be in utter 
 darkness." 
 
 " Yet, madame, persons like you are very rarely met 
 with?" 
 
 " No, I assure your ladyship, others do as I do, with 
 more success and intelligence than I have. One of the 
 inspectresses of the other division of St. Lazare, which 
 is occupied by females charged with different crimes, 
 would interest you much more. She told me this morn- 
 ing of the arrival of a young girl accused of infanticide. 
 I never heard anything more distressing. The father 
 of the unhappy girl, a hard-working, honest lapidary, 
 has gone mad with grief on hearing his daughter's shame. 
 It seems that nothing could be more frightful than the 
 destitution of all this family, who lived in a wretched 
 garret in the Rue du Temple." 
 
 " The Rue du Temple ! " exclaimed Madame d'Harville, 
 much astonished; " what is the workman's name ? " 
 235 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " His daughter's name is Louise Morel." 
 " 'Tis as I thought, then ! " 
 
 " She was in the service of a respectable lawyer named 
 M. Jacques Ferrand." 
 
 " This poor family has been recommended to me," 
 said Cle*mence, blushing ; " but I was far from expecting 
 to see it bowed down by this fresh and terrible blow. 
 And Louise Morel — " 
 
 " Declares her innocence, and affirms her child was 
 born dead ; and it seems as if hers were accents of 
 truth. Since your ladyship takes an interest in this 
 family, if you would be so good as to see the poor girl, 
 perhaps this mark of your kindness might soothe her 
 despair, which they tell me is really alarming." 
 
 " Certainly I will see her ; then I shall have two pro- 
 te'ge'es instead of one, Louise Morel and La Goualeuse, 
 for all you tell me relative to this poor girl interests me 
 excessively. But what must be done to obtain her 
 liberty? 1 will then find a situation for her. I will 
 take care of her in future." 
 
 " With your connections, madame, it will be very easy 
 for you to obtain her liberty the day after to-morrow, for 
 it is at the discretion of the Prefect of Police, and the 
 application of a person of consequence would be decisive 
 with him. But I have wandered from the observation 
 which I made on the slumber of La Goualeuse ; and, with 
 reference to this, I must confess that I should not be 
 astonished if, to the deeply painful feeling of her first 
 error, there is added some other grief no less severe." 
 
 " What mean you, madame ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I am deceived ; but I should not be aston- 
 ished if this young girl, rescued by some circumstance 
 from the degradation in which she was first plunged, has 
 now some honest love, which is at the same time her 
 happiness and her torment." 
 
 " What are your reasons for believing this ? " 
 
 " The determined silence which she keeps as to where 
 28G 
 
ST. LAZARE. 
 
 she has passed the three months which followed her 
 departure from the Cite* makes me think that she fears 
 being discovered by the persons with whom she in all 
 probability found a shelter." 
 « Why should she fear this ? " 
 
 " Because then she would have to own to a previous 
 life, of which they are no doubt ignorant." 
 " True ; her peasant's dress." 
 
 " And then a subsequent circumstance has confirmed 
 my suspicions. Yesterday evening, when I was walking 
 my round of inspection in the dormitory, I went up to 
 La Goualeuse's bed. She was in a deep sleep, and, 
 unlike her companions, her features were calm and tran- 
 quil. Her long, light hair, half disengaged from their 
 bands, fell in profusion down her neck and shoulders. 
 Her two small hands were clasped, and crossed over her 
 bosom, as if she had gone to sleep whilst praying. I 
 looked for some moments with interest at her lovely 
 face, when, in a low voice, and with an accent at once 
 respectful, sad, and impassioned, she uttered a name." 
 
 " And that name?" 
 
 After a moment's silence, Madame Armand replied, 
 gravely : 
 
 "Although I consider that anything learnt during 
 sleep is sacred, yet you interest yourself so generously 
 in this unfortunate girl, madame, that I will confide 
 this name to your secrecy. It was Rodolph." 
 
 " Rodolph ! " exclaimed Madame d'Harville, thinking 
 of the prince. Then, reflecting that, after all, his 
 highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein could have 
 no connection with the Rodolph of the poor Goualeuse, 
 she said to the inspectress, who seemed astonished at 
 her exclamation : 
 
 "The name has surprised me, madame, for, by a 
 singular chance, it is that of a relation of mine ; but 
 what you tell me of La Goualeuse interests me more 
 and more. Can I see her to-day ? now — directly ? " 
 237 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Yes, madame, I will go, as you wish it, and ask her ; 
 I can also learn more of Louise Morel, who is in the 
 other side of the prison." 
 
 " I shall, indeed, be greatly obliged to you, madame," 
 replied Madame d'Harville, who the next moment was 
 alone. 
 
 " How strange ! " she said. " I cannot account for the 
 singular impression which this name of Rodolph makes 
 upon me ! I am really quite insane ! What connec- 
 tion can there be between him and such a creature?" 
 Then, after a moment's silence, the marchioness added, 
 " He was right ; how all this does interest me ! The 
 mind, the heart, expand when they are occupied so 
 nobly ! 'Tis as he said ; we seem to participate some- 
 what in the power of Providence when we aid those who 
 deserve it ; and, then, these excursions into a world of 
 which we had no idea are so attractive, — so amusing, as 
 he said so pleasantly ! What romance could give me 
 such deep feelings, excite my curiosity to such a pitch ? 
 This poor Goualeuse, for instance, has inspired me with 
 deep pity, after all I have heard of her ; and I will 
 blindly follow up this commiseration, for the inspectress 
 has too much experience to be deceived with respect 
 to our prote'ge'e. And the other unhappy girl, — the 
 artisan's daughter, whom the prince has so generously 
 succoured in my name ! Poor people ! their bitter suf- 
 fering has served as a pretext to save me. I have 
 escaped shame, perhaps death, by a hypocritical false- 
 hood. This deceit weighs on my mind, but I will expiate 
 my fault by my charity, though that may be too easy a 
 mode. It is so sweet to follow Rodolph's noble advice ! 
 It is to love as well as to obey him. Oh, I feel it with 
 rapture ! His breath, alone, animates and fertilises the 
 new existence which he has given me in directing me to 
 console those who suffer. I experience an unalloyed 
 delight in acting but as he directs, in having no ideas 
 but his ; for I love him, — ah, yes, I love him ! And yet 
 238 
 
ST. LAZARE. 
 
 he shall always be in ignorance of this, the lasting- 
 passion of my life." 
 
 Whilst Madame d'Harville is waiting for La Goua- 
 leuse, we will conduct the reader into the presence of 
 the prisoners. 
 
 239 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 MONT SAINT -JEAN. 
 
 It was just two o'clock by the dial of the prison of 
 St. Lazare. The cold, which had lasted for several' 
 days, had been succeeded by soft, mild, and almost 
 spring weather ; the rays of the sun were reflected in the 
 water of the large square basin, with its stone corners, 
 formed in the centre of a courtyard planted with trees, 
 and surrounded by dark, high walls pierced with a great 
 many iron-barred windows. Wooden benches were fas- 
 tened here and there in this large paved enclosure, which 
 served for the walking-place of the prisoners. The 
 ringing of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the 
 prisoners came in throngs by a thick wicket-door which 
 was opened to them. These women, all clad alike, wore 
 black skull-caps and long loose gowns of blue woollen 
 cloth, fastened around the waist by a band and iron 
 buckle. There were there two hundred prostitutes, sen- 
 tenced for breach of the particular laws which control 
 them and place them out of the pale of the common law. 
 At first sight their appearance had nothing striking, but, 
 after regarding them with further attention, there might 
 be detected in each face the almost ineffaceable stigmas 
 of vice, and particularly that brutishness which igno- 
 rance and misery invariably engender. "Whilst contem- 
 plating these masses of lost creatures, we cannot help 
 recollecting with sorrow that most of them have been 
 pure and honest, at least at some former period. We 
 say " most of them," because there are some who have 
 been corrupted, vitiated, depraved, not only from their 
 240 
 
MONT SAINT - JEAN. 
 
 youth, but from tenderest infancy, — even from their 
 very birth, if we may say so ; and we shall prove it as 
 we proceed. 
 
 We ask ourselves, then, with painful curiosity, what 
 chain of fatal causes could thus debase these unhappy 
 creatures, who have known shame and chastity ? There 
 are so many declivities, alas, which verge to that fall ! 
 It is rarely the passion of the depraved for depravity ; 
 but dissipation, bad example, perverse education, and, 
 above all, want, which lead so many unfortunates to 
 infamy; and it is the poor classes alone who pay to 
 civilisation this impost on soul and body. 
 
 When the prisoners came into the yard, running and 
 crying out, it was easy to discern that it was not alone 
 the pleasure of leaving their work that made them so 
 noisy. After having hurried forth by the only gate 
 which led to this yard, the crowd spread out and made 
 a ring around a misshapen being, whom they assailed / 
 with shouts. She was a small woman, from thirty-six to 
 forty years of age ; short, round-shouldered, deformed, 
 and with her neck buried between shoulders of unequal 
 height. They had snatched off her black cap, and her 
 hair, which was flaxen, or rather a pale yellow, coarse, 
 matted, and mingled with gray, fell over her low and 
 stupid features. She was clad in a blue loose gown, 
 like the other prisoners, and had under her right arm 
 a small bundle, wrapped up in a miserable, ragged, 
 checked pocket-handkerchief. With her left elbow she 
 endeavoured to ward off the blows aimed at her. Noth- 
 ing could be more lamentably ludicrous than the visage 
 of this unhappy woman. She was hideous and distorted 
 in figure, with projecting features, wrinkled, tanned, and 
 dirty, which were pierced with two holes for nostrils, 
 and two small, red, bloodshot eyes. By turns wrathful 
 and imploring, she scolded and entreated ; but they 
 laughed even more at her complaints than her threats. 
 241 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 This woman was the plaything of the prisoners. One 
 thing ought, however, to have protected her from such 
 ill-usage, — she was evidently about to become a mother ; 
 but her ugliness, her imbecility, and the custom they 
 had of considering her as a victim intended for common 
 sport, rendered her persecutors implacable, in spite of 
 their usual respect for maternity. 
 
 Amongst the fiercest enemies of Mont Saint-Jean 
 (that was the unhappy wretch's name), La Louve was 
 conspicuous. La Louve was a strapping girl of twenty, 
 active, and powerfully grown, with regular features. 
 Her coarse black hair was varied by reddish shades, 
 whilst her blood suffused her skin with its hue ; a brown 
 down shaded her thin lips ; her chestnut eyebrows, thick 
 and projecting, were united over her large and fierce 
 eyes. There was something violent, savage, and brutal 
 in the expression of this woman's physiognomy, — a sort 
 of habitual sneer, which curled her upper lip during a 
 fit of rage, and, exposing her white and wide-apart teeth, 
 accounted for her name of La Louve (the she-wolf). 
 Yet in that countenance there was more of boldness and 
 insolence than cruelty ; and, in a word, it was seen that, 
 rather become vicious than born so, this woman was still 
 susceptible of certain good impulses, as the inspectress 
 had told Madame d'Harville. 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! What have I done ? " exclaimed Mont 
 Saint- Jean, struggling in the midst of her companions. 
 " Why are you so cruel to me ? " 
 
 " Because it is so amusing." 
 
 " Because you are only fit to be teased." 
 
 " It is your business." 
 
 " Look at yourself, and you will see that you have no 
 right to complain." 
 
 " But you know well enough that I don't complain as 
 long as I can help it ; I bear it as long as I can." 
 
 " Well, we'll let you alone, if you will tell us why you 
 call yourself Mont Saint-Jean." 
 
 242 
 
MONT SAINT -JEAN. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; come, tell us all that directly." 
 
 " Why, I've told you a hundred times. It was an old 
 soldier that I loved a long while ago, and who was called 
 so because he was wounded at the battle of Mont Saint- 
 Jean ; so I took his name. That's it ; now are you 
 satisfied ? You will make me repeat the same thing 
 over, and over, and over ! " 
 
 " If your soldier was like you, he was a beauty ! " 
 
 " I suppose he was in the Invalids ? " 
 
 " The remains of a man — " 
 
 " How many glass eyes had he ? " 
 
 " And wasn't his nose of block tin ? " 
 
 " He must have been short of two arms and two legs, 
 besides being deaf and blind, if he took up with you." 
 
 " I am ugly, — a monster, I know that as well as you 
 can tell me. Say what you like, — make game of me, if 
 you choose, it's all one to me ; only don't beat me, that's 
 all, I beg ! " 
 
 "What have you got in that old handkerchief ?" / 
 asked La Louve. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! What is it ? " 
 " Show it up directly ! " 
 " Let's see ! Let's see ! " 
 
 " Oh, no, I beg ! " exclaimed the miserable creature, 
 squeezing up the little bundle in her hands with all her 
 might. 
 
 " What ! Must we take it from you ? " 
 " Yes, snatch it from her, La Louve ! " 
 " Oh, you won't be so wicked ? Let it go ! Let it go, 
 I say ! " 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Why, it's the beginning of my baby linen ; I make 
 it with the old bits of linen which no one wants, and I 
 pick up. It's nothing to you, is it ? " 
 
 " Oh, the baby linen of Mont Saint-Jean's little one ! 
 That must be a rum set out ! " 
 
 " Let's look at it." 
 
 243 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 « The baby clothes ! The baby clothes ! " 
 " She has taken measure of the keeper's little dog, no 
 doubt." 
 
 " Here's your baby clothes," cried La Louve, snatch- 
 ing the bundle from Mont Saint-Jean's grasp. 
 
 The handkerchief, already torn, was now rent to 
 tatters, and a quantity of fragments of stuff of all 
 colours, and old pieces of linen half cut out, flew 
 around the yard, and were trampled under feet by the 
 prisoners, who holloaed and laughed louder than before. 
 
 " Here's your rags ! " 
 
 " Why, it is a ragpicker's bag." 
 
 " Patterns from the ragman's." 
 
 « What a shop ! " 
 
 " And to sew all that rubbish ! " 
 
 " Why, there's more thread than stuff." 
 
 " What nice embroidery ! " 
 
 " Here, pick up your rags and tatters, Mont Saint-Jean." 
 
 " Oh, how wicked ! Oh, how cruel ! " exclaimed the 
 poor ill-used creature, running in every direction after 
 the pieces, which she endeavoured to pick up in spite of 
 pushes and blows. " I never did anybody any harm," 
 she added, weeping. " I. have offered, if they would let 
 me alone, to do anything I could for anybody, to give 
 them half my allowance, although I am always so 
 hungry ; but, no ! no ! it's always so. What can I 
 do to be left in peace ? They haven't even pity of a 
 poor woman in the family way. They are more cruel 
 than the beasts. Oh, the trouble I had to collect these 
 little bits of linen ! How else can I make the clothes for 
 my baby, for I have no money to buy them with ? What 
 harm was there in picking up what nobody else wanted 
 when it was thrown away ? " Then Mont Saint- J ean 
 exclaimed suddenly, with a ray of hope, " Oh, there you 
 are, Goualeuse ! Now, then, I'm safe ; do speak to them 
 for me ; they will listen to you, I am sure, for they love 
 you as much as they hate me." 
 
 244 
 
MONT SAINT -JEAN. 
 
 La Goualeuse was the last of the prisoners who 
 entered the enclosure. 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie wore the blue woollen gown and black 
 skull-cap of the prisoners ; but even in this coarse cos- 
 tume she was still charming. Yet, since her carrying 
 off from the farm of Bouqueval (the consequences of 
 which circumstance we will explain hereafter), her 
 features seemed greatly altered ; her pale cheeks, 
 formerly tinged with a slight colour, were as wan 
 as the whiteness of alabaster ; the expression, too, of 
 her countenance had changed, and was now imprinted 
 with a kind of dignified grief. Fleur-de-Marie felt that 
 to bear courageously the painful sacrifices of expiation is 
 almost to attain restored position. 
 
 " Ask a favour for me, Goualeuse," said poor Mont 
 Saint-Jean, beseechingly, to the young girl ; " see how 
 they are flinging about the yard all I had collected, with 
 so much trouble, to begin my baby linen for my child. 
 What good can it do them ? " 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie did not say a word, but began very 
 actively to pick up, one by one, from under $ie women's 
 feet, all the rags she could collect. One prisoner ill- 
 temperedly kept her foot on a sort of little bed-gown 
 of coarse woollen cloth. Fleur-de-Marie, still stooping, 
 looked up at the woman, and said to her in a sweet 
 tone : 
 
 " I beg of you let me pick it up. I ask it in the name 
 of this poor woman who is weeping." 
 
 The prisoner removed her foot. The bed-gown was 
 rescued, as well as most of the other scraps, which La 
 Goualeuse acquired piece by piece. There remained to 
 obtain a small child's cap, which two prisoners were 
 struggling for, and laughing at. Fleur-de-Marie said 
 to them : 
 
 " Be all good, pray do. Let me have the little cap." 
 " Oh, to be sure ! It's for a harlequin in swaddling- 
 clothes this cap is ! It is made of a bit of gray stuff, 
 245 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 with points of green and black fustian, and lined with 
 a bit of an old mattress cover." 
 
 The description was exact, and was hailed with loud 
 and long-continued shoutings. 
 
 " Laugh away, but let me have it," said Mont Saint- 
 Jean ; " and pray do not drag it in the mud as you have 
 some of the other things. I'm sorry you've made your 
 hands so dirty for me, Goualeuse," she added, in a 
 grateful tone. 
 
 " Let me have the harlequin's cap," said La Louve, 
 who obtained possession of it, and waved it in the air as 
 a trophy. 
 
 " Give it to me, I entreat you," said Goualeuse. 
 
 " No ! You want to give it back to Mont Saint-Jean." 
 
 " Certainly I do." 
 
 " Oh, it is not worth while, it is such a rag." 
 
 " Mont Saint-Jean has nothing but rags to dress her 
 child in, and you ought to have pity upon her, La Louve," 
 said Fleur-de-Marie, in a mournful voice, and stretching 
 out her hand towards the cap. 
 
 " You sha'n't have it ! " answered La Louve, in a 
 brutal tone ; " must everybody always give way to you 
 because you are the weakest ? You come, I see, to abuse 
 the kindness that is shown to you." 
 
 " But," said La Goualeuse, with a smile full of sweet- 
 ness, " where would be the merit of giving up to me, if 
 I were the stronger of the two ? " 
 
 "No, no ; you want to wheedle me over with your 
 smooth, canting words ; but it won't do, — you sha'n't 
 have it, I tell you." 
 
 " Come, come, now, La Louve, do not be ill-natured." 
 
 " Let me alone ! You tire me to death ! " 
 
 " Oh, pray do ! " 
 
 " I will not ! " 
 
 " Yes, do, — let me beg of you ! " 
 " Now, don't put me in a passion," exclaimed La Louve, 
 thoroughly irritated. " I have said no, and I mean no." 
 246 
 
MONT SAINT - JEAN. 
 
 " Take pity on the poor thing, see how she is crying ! " 
 
 " What is that to me ? So much the worse for her ; 
 she is our pain-bearer" (souffre douleur). 
 
 " So she is," murmured out a number of the prisoners, 
 instigated by the example of La Louve. " No, no, she 
 ought not to have her rags back ! So much the worse 
 for Mont Saint- Jean." 
 
 " You are right," said Fleur-de-Marie, with bitterness; 
 " it is so much the worse for her ; she is your pain-bearer, 
 she ought to submit herself to your pleasure, — her tears 
 and sighs amuse and divert you ! — and you must have 
 some way of passing your time. Were you to kill her 
 on the spot, she would have no right to say anything. 
 You speak truly, La Louve, this is just and fair, is it not ? 
 Here is a poor, weak, defenceless woman ; alone in the 
 midst of so many, she is quite unable to defend her- 
 self, yet you all combine against her ! Certainly your 
 behaviour towards her is most just and generous ! " 
 
 "And I suppose you mean to say we are all a parcel 
 of cowards ? " retorted La Louve, carried away by the 
 violence of her disposition and extreme impatience at 
 anything like contradiction. " Answer me, do you call us 
 cowards, eh ? Speak out, and let us know your mean- 
 ing," continued she, growing more and more incensed. 
 
 A murmur of displeasure against La Goualeuse, not 
 unmixed with threats, arose from the assembled crowd. 
 The offended prisoners thronged around her, vociferating 
 their disapprobation, forgetting, or remembering but. as 
 a fresh cause of offence, the ascendency she had until the 
 present moment exercised over them. 
 
 " She calls us cowards, you see ! " 
 
 " What business has she to find fault with us ? " 
 
 " Is she better than we are, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " Ah, we have all been too kind to her ! " 
 
 " And now she wants to'give herself fine lady airs, and 
 to domineer over us ! If we choose to torment Mont 
 Saint-Jean, what need has she to interfere?" 
 
 247 . 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Since 4t has come to this, I tell you what, Mont 
 Saint- Jean, you shall fare the worse for it for the 
 future." 
 
 "Take this to begin with!" said one of the most 
 violent of the party, giving her a blow. 
 
 " And if you meddle again with what does not con- 
 cern you, La Goualeuse, we will serve you the same." 
 
 « Yes, that we will." 
 
 " But that is not all ! " said La Louve. " La Goua- 
 leuse must ask our pardon for having called us cowards. 
 She must and she shall ! If we don't put a stop to her 
 goings on, she will soon leave us without the power of 
 saying our soul is our own, and we are great fools not 
 to have seen this sooner." 
 
 " Make her ask our pardon." 
 
 " On her knee." 
 
 " On both knees." 
 
 " Or we will serve her precisely the same as we did 
 her prote'gde, Mont Saint-Jean ! " 
 
 " Down on her knees ! Down with her ! " 
 " Lo ! we are cowards, are we ? " 
 " Dare to say it again ! " 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie allowed this tumult to pass away, ere 
 she replied to the many furious voices that were raging 
 around her. Then, casting a mild and melancholy glance 
 at the exasperated crowd, she said to La Louve, who 
 persisted in vociferating, " Will you dare to call us 
 cowards again ? " 
 
 " You ? Oh, no, not you ! I call this poor woman, whom 
 you have so roughly treated, whom you have dragged 
 through the mud, and whose clothes you have nearly 
 torn off, a coward. Do you not see how she trembles, 
 and dares not even look at you ? No, no ! I say again, 
 'tis she who is a coward, for being thus afraid of you." 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie had touched the right chord ; in vain 
 might she have appealed to their sense of justice and 
 duty, in order to allay their bitter irritation against poor 
 248 
 
MONT SAINT - JEAN. 
 
 Mont Saint-Jean ; the stupid or brutalised minds of the 
 prisoners would alike have been inaccessible to her plead- 
 ings ; but, by addressing herself to that sentiment of 
 generosity, which is never wholly extinct, even in the 
 most depraved characters, she kindled a spark of pity, 
 that required but skilful management to fan into a flame 
 of commiseration, instead of hatred and violence. La 
 Louve, amid their continued murmurings against La 
 Goualeuse and her protegee, felt, and confessed, that 
 their conduct had. been both unwomanly and cowardly. 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie would not carry her first triumph too 
 far. She contented herself with merely saying: 
 
 " Surely, if this poor creature, whom you call yours, 
 to tease, to torment, to ill-use, — in fact, your souffre 
 douleur, — be not worthy of your pity, her infant has 
 done nothing to offend you. Did you forget, when strik- 
 ing the mother, that the unborn babe might suffer from 
 your blows ? And when she besought your mercy, 'twas 
 not for herself, but her child. When she craves of you 
 a morsel of bread, if, indeed, you have it to spare, 'tis 
 not to satisfy her own hunger she begs it, but that her 
 infant may live ; and when, with streaming eyes, she 
 implored of you to spare the few rags she had with 
 so much difficulty collected together, it arose from a 
 mother's love for that unseen treasure her heart so loves 
 and prizes. This poor little patchwork cap, and the 
 pieces of old mattresses she has so awkwardly sewed 
 together, no doubt appear to you fit objects of mirth; 
 but, for my own part, I feel far more inclined to cry 
 than to laugh at seeing the poor creature's instinctive 
 attempts to provide for her babe. So, if you laugh at 
 Mont Saint- Jean, let me come in for my share of your 
 ridicule." 
 
 Not the faintest attempt at a smile appeared on any 
 countenance, and La Louve continued, with fixed gaze, 
 to contemplate the little cap she still held in her hand. 
 
 " I know very well," said Fleur-de-Marie, drying her 
 249 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 eyes with the back of her white and delicate hand, — " I 
 know very well that you are not really ill-natured or 
 cruel, and that you merely torment Mont Saint-Jean 
 from thoughtlessness. But consider that she and her 
 infant are one. If she held it in her arms, not only 
 would you carefully avoid doing it the least injury, but 
 I am quite sure, if it were cold, you would even take 
 from your own garments to cover it. Would not you, 
 La Louve ? Oh, I know you would, every one of 
 you ! " 
 
 " To be sure we would, — every one pities a tender 
 baby." 
 
 " That is quite natural." 
 
 " And if it cried with hunger, you would take the 
 bread from your own mouth to feed it with. Would 
 not you, La Louve ? " 
 
 " That I would, and willingly, too ! I am not more 
 hard-hearted than other people ! " 
 
 " Nor more are we ! " 
 
 " A poor, helpless, little creature ! " 
 
 "Who could have the heart to think of harming it ?" 
 
 " They must be. downright monsters ! " 
 
 " Perfect savages ! " 
 
 " Worse than wild beasts ! " 
 
 " I told you so," resumed Fleur-de-Marie. " I said 
 you were not intentionally unkind ; and you have proved 
 that you are good and pitying towards Mont Saint-Jean. 
 The fault consisted in your not reflecting that, although 
 her child is yet unborn, it is still liable to harm from 
 any mischief that befalls its mother. That is all the 
 wrong you have done." 
 
 " All the wrong we have done ! " exclaimed La 
 Louve, much excited. " But I say it is not all. You 
 were right, La Goualeuse. We acted like a set of 
 cowards ; and you alone deserve to be called courageous, 
 because you did not fear to tell us so, or shrink from us 
 after you had told us. It is nonsense to seek to deny 
 250 
 
MONT SAINT -JEAN. 
 
 the fact that you are not a creature like us, — it is no 
 use trying to persuade ourselves you are like such beings 
 as we are, so we may as well give it up. I don't like to 
 own it, but it is so ; and I may just as well confess it. 
 Just now, when we were all in the wrong, you had cour- 
 age enough, not only to refuse to join us, but to tell us 
 of our fault. 1 ' 
 
 "That is true enough; and the fair-faced girl must 
 have had a pretty stock of courage to tell us the truth 
 so plainly to our faces." 
 
 " But, bless you, these blue-eyed people, who look so 
 soft and gentle, if once they are worked up — " 
 
 " They become courageous as lions." 
 
 " Poor Mont Saint- Jean ! She has good reason to be 
 thankful to her ! " 
 
 " What she says is true enough. We could not injure 
 the mother without harming the child also." 
 
 " I never thought of that." 
 
 « Nor I either." 
 
 " But you see La Goualeuse did, — she never forgets 
 anything." 
 
 " The idea of hurting an infant ! horrible ! Is it not ? " 
 
 " I'm sure there is not one of us would do it for any- 
 thing that could be offered us." 
 
 Nothing is more variable than popular passion, or 
 more abrupt than its rapid transition from bad to good, 
 and even the reverse. The simple yet touching argu- 
 ments of Fleur-de-Marie had effected a powerful reaction 
 in favour of Mont Saint-Jean, who shed tears of deep 
 joy. Every heart seemed moved ; for, as we have al- 
 ready said, the womanly feelings of the prisoners had 
 been awakened, and they now felt a solicitude for the 
 unhappy creature in proportion as they had formerly 
 held her in dislike and contempt. All at once, La 
 Louve, violent and impetuous in all her actions, twisted 
 the little cap she held in her hand into a sort of purse, 
 and feeling in her pocket brought out twenty sous, which 
 251 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 she threw into the purse ; then presenting it to her 
 companions, exclaimed : 
 
 " Here is my twenty sous towards buying baby clothes 
 for Mont Saint-Jean's child. We will cut them out and 
 make them ourselves, in order that the work may cost 
 nothing." 
 
 " Oh, yes, let us." 
 
 " To be sure, — let us all join ! " 
 
 " I will for one." 
 
 " What a capital idea ! " 
 
 " Poor creature ! " 
 
 " Though she is so frightfully ugly, yet she has a 
 mother's feelings the same as another." 
 
 " La Goualeuse was right. It is really enough to 
 make one cry one's eyes out, to see what a wretched 
 collection of rags the poor creature has scraped together 
 for her baby." 
 
 " Well, I'll give thirty sous." 
 
 " And I ten." 
 
 " I'll give twenty sous." 
 
 " I've only got four sous, but I'll give them." 
 
 " I have no money at all ; but I'll sell my allowance 
 for to-morrow, and put whatever any one will give for it 
 into the collection. Who'll buy my to-morrow's rations ? " 
 
 " I will," said La Louve. " So, here I put in ten sous 
 for you ; but you shall keep your rations. And now, 
 Mont Saint -Jean shall have baby clothes fit for a 
 princess." 
 
 To express the joy and gratitude of Mont Saint-Jean 
 would be wholly impossible. The most intense delight 
 and happiness illumined her countenance, and rendered 
 even her usual hideous features interesting. Fleur-de- 
 Marie was almost as happy, though compelled to say, 
 when La Louve handed to her the collecting-cap : 
 
 " I am very sorry I have not a single sou of money, 
 but I will work as long as you please at making the 
 clothes." 
 
 252 
 
MONT SAINT -JEAN. 
 
 " Oh, my dear heavenly angel ! " cried Mont Saint- 
 Jean, throwing herself on her knees before La Goua- 
 leuse, and striving to kiss her hand. " What have I 
 ever done to merit such goodness on your part, or the 
 charity of these kind ladies ? Gracious Father ! Do 
 I hear aright ? Baby things ! and all nice and comfort- 
 able for my child ! A real, proper set of baby clothes ! 
 Everything I can require ! Who would ever have thought 
 of such a thing ? I am sure I never should. I shall lose 
 my senses with joy ! Only to think that a poor, miser- 
 able wretch like myself, the make-game of everybody, 
 should all at once, just because you spoke a few soft, 
 sweet words out of that heavenly mouth, have such 
 wonderful blessings ! See how your words have changed 
 those who meant to harm me, but who now pity me and 
 are my friends ; and I feel as though I could never thank 
 them enough, or express my gratitude ! Oh, how very, 
 very kind of them ! How wrong of me to be offended 
 and angry with what they said! How stupid and un- 
 grateful I must have been not to perceive that they were 
 only playing with me, — that they had no intention of 
 harming me. Oh, no ! It was all meant for my good. 
 Here is a proof of it. Oh, for the future, if they like to 
 knock me about ever so, I will not so much as cry out ! 
 Oh, I was too impatient when I complained before ; but 
 I will make up for it next time ! " 
 
 " Eighty-eight francs seven sous ! " said La Louve, 
 finishing her reckoning of the collection gathered by 
 handing about the little bonnet. " Who will be treas- 
 urer till we lay out the money ? We must not entrust 
 it to Mont Saint-Jean, she is too simple." 
 
 " Let La Goualeuse take charge of it ! " cried a 
 unanimous burst of voices. 
 
 " No," said Fleur-de-Marie ; " the best way will be to 
 beg of the inspectress, Madame Armand, to take charge 
 of the sum collected, and to buy the necessary articles 
 for Mont Saint-Jean's confinement ; and then, — who 
 253 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 knows ? — perhaps Madame Armand may take notice 
 of the good action you have performed, and report it T 
 so as to be the means of shortening the imprisonment 
 of all whose names are mentioned as being concerned 
 in it. Tell me, La Louve," added Fleur-de-Marie, tak- 
 ing her companion by the arm, " are you not better 
 satisfied with yourself than you were just now, when 
 you were throwing about all Mont Saint-Jean's poor 
 baby's things?" 
 
 La Louve did not immediately reply. To the generous 
 excitement which a few moments before animated her 
 features, succeeded a sort of half savage air of defiance. 
 Unable to comprehend the cause of this sudden change, 
 Fleur-de-Marie looked at her with surprise. 
 
 " Come hero, La Goualeuse," said La Louve at last, 
 with a gloomy tone ; " I want to speak to you." 
 
 Then abruptly quitting the other prisoners, she led 
 Fleur-de-Marie to a reservoir of water, surrounded by 
 a stone coping, which had been hollowed out in the 
 midst of an adjoining meadow. Near the water was 
 a bench, also of stone, on which La Louve and La Gou- 
 aleuse placed themselves, and were thus, in a manner, 
 beyond the observation or hearing of their companions. 
 
 254 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LA L0T7VE AND LA GOUALETJSE. 
 
 We firmly believe in the influence of certain master 
 minds so far sympathising with the masses, so powerful 
 over them as to impose on them the bias of good or evil. 
 Some, bold, enthusiastic, indomitable, addressing them- 
 selves to the worst passions, will rouse them, as the 
 storm raises the foam of the sea ; but, like all tempests, 
 these are as ephemeral as they are furious ; to these ter- 
 rible effervescences will succeed the sullen reversion of 
 sadness and restlessness, which will obtain supremacy 
 over the most miserable conditions. The reaction of 
 violence is always severe ; the waking after an excess is 
 always painful. 
 
 La Louve, if you will, personifies this fatal influence. 
 
 Other organisations, more rare, because their gener- 
 ous instincts must be fertilised by intelligence, and with 
 them the mind is on an equality with the heart, — oth- 
 ers, we say, will inspire good, as well as some inspire 
 evil. Their wholesome influence will gently penetrate 
 into the soul, as the warm rays of the sun penetrate the 
 body with invigorating heat, as the arid and burning 
 earth imbibes the fresh and grateful dew of night. 
 
 Fleur-de-Alarie, if you will, personifies this benevolent 
 influence. 
 
 The reaction to good is not so sudden as the reaction 
 to evil ; its effects are more protracted. It is something 
 delicious, inexplicable, which gradually extends itself, 
 
 255 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 calms and soothes the most hardened heart, and gives 
 it the feeling of inexpressible serenity. Unfortunately 
 the charm ceases. 
 
 After having seen celestial brightness, ill-disposed per- 
 sons fall back into the darkness of their habitual life ; 
 the recollections of sweet emotions which have for a 
 moment surprised them are gradually effaced. Still 
 they sometimes seek vaguely to recall them, even as we 
 try to murmur out the songs with which our happy 
 infancy was cradled. Thanks to the good action with 
 which she had inspired them, the companions of La Gou- 
 aleuse had tasted of the passing sweetness of these feel- 
 ings, in which even La Louve had participated ; but this 
 latter, for reasons we shall describe hereafter, remained 
 a shorter time than the other prisoners under this benev- 
 olent feeling. If we are surprised to hear and see Fleur- 
 de-Marie, hitherto so passively, so painfully resigned, act 
 and speak with courage and authority, it was because 
 the noble precepts she had imbibed during her residence 
 at the farm at Bouqueval had rapidly developed the rare 
 qualities of her admirable disposition. Fleur-de-Marie 
 understood that it is not sufficient to bewail the irrepar- 
 able past, and that it is only in doing or inspiring good 
 that a reinstatement can be hoped for. 
 
 We have said that La Louve was sitting on a wooden 
 bench, beside La Goualeuse. The close proximity of 
 these two young girls offered a singular contrast. 
 
 The pale rays of a winter sun were shed over them ; 
 the pure sky was speckled in places with small, white, 
 and fleecy clouds ; some birds, enlivened by the warmth 
 of the temperature, were warbling in the black branches 
 of the large chestnut-trees in the yard ; two or three 
 sparrows, more bold than their fellows, came and drank 
 in a small rivulet formed by the overflow of the basin ; 
 the green moss covered the stones of the fountain, and 
 between their joints, here and there, were tufts of grass 
 256 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 and some small creepers, spared by the frost. This 
 description of a prison-basin may seem puerile ; but 
 Meur-de-Marie did not lose one of the details, but with 
 her eyes fixed mournfully on the little verdant corner, 
 and on this limpid water in which the moving whiteness 
 of the clouds over the azure of the heavens was reflected, 
 in which the golden rays of a lovely sun broke with 
 beautiful lustre, she thought with a sigh of the mag- 
 nificence of the Nature which she loved, which she ad- 
 mired so poetically, and of which she was still deprived. 
 
 " What did you wish to say to me ? " asked La Goua- 
 leuse of her companion, who, seated beside her, was 
 gloomy and silent. 
 
 "We must have an explanation," said La Louve, 
 sternly; "things cannot go on as they are." 
 
 " I do not understand you, La Louve." 
 
 " Just now, in the yard, referring to Mont Saint- Jean, 
 I said to myself, ' I won't give way any more to La 
 Goualeuse,' and yet I do give way now." 
 
 «But — " 
 
 " But I tell you it cannot continue so." 
 
 " In what have I offended you, La Louve ?" 
 
 "Why, I am not the same person I was when you 
 came here ; no, I have neither courage, strength, nor 
 boldness." 
 
 Then suddenly checking herself, La Louve pulled up 
 the sleeve of her gown, and showing La Goualeuse her 
 white arm, powerful, and covered with black down, she 
 showed her, on the upper part of it, an indelible tattoo- 
 ing, representing a blue dagger half plunged in a red 
 heart ; over this emblem were these words : 
 
 MORT AUX LACHES! 
 MARTIAL 
 
 p. L. v. (pour la vie.) 
 (death to cowards ! 
 
 MARTIAL 
 FOR LIFE ! ) 
 
 257 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 " Do you see that ? " asked La Louve. 
 
 " Yes ; and it is so shocking, it quite frightens me," 
 said La Goualeuse, turning away her head. 
 
 "When Martial, my lover, wrote, with a red-hot 
 needle, these words on my arm, ' Death to Cowards ! ' he 
 thought me brave ; if he knew my behaviour for the last 
 three days, he would stick his knife in my body, as this 
 dagger is driven into this heart, — and he would be right, 
 for he wrote here, ' Death to Cowards ! ' and I am a 
 coward." 
 
 " What have you done that is cowardly ? " 
 " Everything." 
 
 " Do you regret the good resolution you made just 
 now?" 
 « Yes." 
 
 " I cannot believe you." 
 
 "I say I do regret it, — for it is another proof of 
 what you can do with all of us. Didn't you understand 
 what Mont Saint-Jean meant when she went on her 
 knees to thank you ? " 
 
 « What did she say?" 
 
 " She said, speaking of you, that with nothing you 
 turned us from evil to good. I could have throttled her 
 when she said it, for, to our shame, it was true. Yes, 
 in no time you change us from black to white. We 
 listen to you, — give way to our first feelings, and are 
 your dupes, as we were just now." 
 
 " My dupe ! for having generously succoured this poor 
 woman ? " 
 
 " Oh, it has nothing to do with all that," exclaimed 
 La Louve, with rage. " I have never till now stooped my 
 head before a breathing soul. La Louve is my name, 
 and I am well named : more than one woman bears my 
 marks, and more than one man, too ; and it shall never 
 be said that a little chit like you can place me beneath 
 her feet." 
 
 " Me ! and in what way ? " 
 
 258 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 " How do I know ! You come here, and first begin 
 by insulting rue." 
 "Insult you?" 
 
 " Yes, — you ask who'll have your bread. I first say 
 
 — I. Mont Saint-Jean did not ask for it till afterwards, 
 and yet you give her the preference. Enraged at that, 
 I rushed at you with my uplifted knife — " 
 
 " And I said to you, ' Kill me, if you like, but do not 
 let me linger long,' and that is all." 
 
 " That is all ? Yes, that is all. And yet these 
 words made me drop my knife, — made me — ask your 
 pardon, — yes, pardon of you who insulted me. Is that 
 natural ? Why, when I recovered my senses, I was 
 ashamed of myself. The evening you came here, when 
 you were on your knees to say your prayers, — why, 
 instead of making game of you, and setting all the 
 dormitory on you, did I say, 4 Let her alone ; she prays, 
 and has a right to pray ? ' Then the next day, why 
 were I and all the others ashamed to dress ourselves 
 before you ? " 
 
 " I do not know, La Louve." 
 
 " Indeed ! " replied the violent creature, with irony. 
 " You don't know ! Why, no doubt, it is because, as we 
 have all of us said, jokingly, that you are of a different 
 sort from us. You think so, don't you ? " 
 
 " I have never said that I thought so." 
 
 " No, you have not said so ; but you behave just as if 
 it were so." 
 
 " I beg of you to listen to me." 
 
 " No, I have been already too foolish to listen to you 
 
 — to look at you. Till now, I never envied any one. 
 Well, two or three times I have been surprised at 
 myself. Am I growing a fool or a coward ? I have 
 found myself envious of your face, so like the Holy 
 Virgin's; of your gentle and mournful look. Yes, I 
 have even been envious of your chestnut hair and your 
 blue eyes. I, who detest fair women, because I am dark 
 
 259 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 myself, wish to resemble you. I ! La Louve ! I ! Why, 
 it is but eight days since, and I would have marked 
 any one who dared but say so. Yet it is not your lot 
 that would tempt one, for you are as full of grief as a 
 Magdalene. Is it natural, I say, eh ? " 
 
 " How can I account to you for the impression I make 
 upon you ? " 
 
 " Oh, you know well enough what you do, though 
 you look as if you were too delicate to be touched." 
 
 " What bad design can you suppose me capable of ? " 
 
 " How can I tell ? It is because I do not understand 
 anything of all this that I mistrust you. Another 
 thing, too : until now I have always been merry or 
 passionate, and never thoughtful, but you — you have 
 made me thoughtful. Yes, there are words which 
 you utter, that, in spite of myself, have shaken my 
 very heart, and made me think of all sorts of sad 
 things." 
 
 " I am sorry, La Louve, if I ever made you sad ; but 
 I do not remember ever having said anything — " 
 
 " Oh," cried La Louve, interrupting her companion 
 with angry impatience, " what you do is sometimes as 
 affecting as what you say ! You are so clever ! " 
 
 " Do not be angry, La Louve, but explain what you 
 mean." 
 
 " Yesterday, in the workroom, I noticed you, — you 
 bent your head over the work you were sewing, and 
 a large tear fell on your hand. You looked at it for a 
 minute, and then you lifted your hand to your lips, as if 
 to kiss and wipe it away. Is this true ? " 
 
 " Yes," said La Goualeuse, blushing. 
 
 " There was nothing in this ; but at the moment you 
 looked so unhappy, so very miserable, that I felt my very 
 heart turned, as it were, inside out. Tell me, do you find 
 this amusing ? Why, now, I have been as hard as flint 
 on all occasions. No one ever saw me shed a tear, — and 
 yet, only looking at your chit face, I felt my heart sink 
 260 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 basely within me! Yes, for this is baseness, — pure 
 cowardice ; and the proof is, that for three days I have 
 not dared to write to Martial, my lover, my conscience 
 is so bad. Yes, being with you has enfeebled my mind, 
 and this must be put an end to, — there's enough of 
 it; this will else do me mischief, I am sure. I wish 
 to remain as I am, and not become a joke and despised 
 thing to myself." 
 
 " You are angry with me, La Louve ? " 
 
 " Yes, you are a bad acquaintance for me ; and if it 
 continues, why, in a fortnight's time, instead of calling 
 me the She-wolf, they would call me the Ewe ! But no, 
 thank, ye, it sha'n't come to that yet, — Martial would 
 kill me ; and so, to make an end of this matter, I will 
 break up all acquaintance with you ; and that I may be 
 quite separated from you, I shall ask to be put in another 
 room. If they refuse me, I will do some piece of mis- 
 chief to put me in wind again, and that I may be sent to 
 the black-hole for the remainder of my time here. And 
 this was what I had to say to you, Goualeuse." 
 
 Timidly taking her companion's hand, who looked at 
 her with gloomy distrust, Fleur-de-Marie said : 
 
 " I am sure, La Louve, that you take an interest in 
 me, not because you are cowardly, but because you are 
 generous-hearted. Brave hearts are the only ones which 
 sympathise in the misfortunes of others." 
 
 " There is neither generosity nor courage in it," said 
 La Louve, coarsely ; " it is downright cowardice. Be- 
 sides, I don't choose to have it said that I sympathise 
 with any one. It ain't true." 
 
 "Then I will not say so, La Louve; but since you 
 have taken an interest in me, you will let me feel 
 grateful to you, will you not ? " 
 
 « Oh, if you like ! This evening, I shall be in another 
 room than yours, or alone in the dark hole, and I shall 
 soon be out, thank God ! " 
 
 " And where shall you go when you leave here ? " 
 261 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Why, home, to be sure, to the Rue Pierre-Lescat. 
 I have my furniture there." 
 
 " And Martial ? " said La Goualeuse, who hoped to 
 keep up the conversation with La Louve, by interesting 
 her in what she most cared for ; " shall you be glad to 
 see him again ? " 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes ! " she replied, with a passionate air. 
 " When I was taken up, he was just recovering from 
 an illness, — a fever which he had from being always 
 in the water. For seventeen days and seventeen nights 
 I never left him for a moment, and I sold half my kit in 
 order to pay the doctor, the drags and all. I may boast 
 of that, and I do boast of it. If my man lives, it is I who 
 saved him. Yesterday I burnt another candle for him. 
 It is folly, — a mere whim, — but yet it is all one, and 
 we have sometimes very good effects in burning candles 
 for a person's recovery." 
 
 " And, Martial, where is he now ? What is he 
 doing?" 
 
 " He is still on an island, near the bridge, at 
 Asnieres." 
 
 « On an island ? " 
 
 " Yes, he is settled there, with his family, in a lone 
 house. He is always at loggerheads with the persons 
 who protect the fishing ; but when he is once in his boat, 
 with his double-barrelled gun, why, they who approach 
 him had better look out ! " said La Louve, proudly. 
 
 " What, then, is his occupation ? " 
 
 " He poaches in the night ; and then, as he is as bold 
 as a lion, when some coward wishes to get up a quarrel 
 with another, why, he will lend his hand." 
 
 " Where did you first know Martial ? " 
 
 " At Paris. He wished to be a locksmith, — a capital 
 business, — always with red-hot iron and fire around you ; 
 dangerous you may suppose, but then that suited him. 
 But he, like me, was badly disposed, and could not agree 
 with his master ; and then, too, they were always throw- 
 262 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 ing his father and one of his brothers in his teeth. But 
 that's nothing to you. The end of it was, that he re- 
 turned to his mother, who is a very devil in sin and 
 wickedness, and began to poach on the river. He cannot 
 see me at Paris, and in the daytime I go to see him in 
 his island, the He du Ravageur, near AsniSres. It's very 
 near ; though if it were farther off, I would go all the 
 same, even if I went on my hands and knees, or swam 
 all the way, for I can swim like an otter." 
 
 " You must be very happy to go into the country," 
 said La Goualeuse, with a sigh ; " especially if you are 
 as fond as I am of walking in the fields." 
 
 " I prefer walking in the woods and large forests with 
 my man." 
 
 " In the forests ! Oh, ain't you afraid ? " 
 
 " Afraid ! Oh, yes, afraid ! I should think so ! 
 What can a she-wolf fear ? The thicker and more 
 lonely the forest, the better I should like it. A lone 
 hut in which I should live with Martial as a poacher, 
 to go with him at night to set the snares for the game, 
 and then, if the keepers came to apprehend us, to fire 
 at them, both of us, whilst my man and I were hid in 
 underwood, — ah, that would indeed be happiness ! " 
 
 " Then you have lived in the woods, La Louve ? " 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Who gave you these ideas, then ? " 
 " Martial." 
 
 " How did he acquire them ?" 
 
 " He was a poacher in the forest of Rambouillet ; and 
 it is not a year ago that he was supposed to have fired 
 at a keeper who had fired at him, the vagabond ! How- 
 ever, there was no proof of the fact, but Martial was 
 obliged to leave that part of the country. Then he 
 came to Paris to try and be a locksmith, and then I first 
 saw him. As he was too wild to be on good terms with 
 his master, he preferred returning to his relations at 
 Asnieres, and poach in the river; it is not so slavish. 
 263 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Still he always regrets the woods, and some day or 
 other will return to them. From his talking to me of 
 poaching and forests, he has crammed my head with 
 these ideas, and I now think that is the life I was 
 born for. But it is always so. What your man likes, 
 you like. If Martial had been a thief, I should have 
 been a thief. When one has a man, we like to be like 
 him." 
 
 " And where are your own relations, La Louve ? " 
 
 " How should I know ? " 
 
 " Is it long since you saw them ? " 
 
 " I don't know whether they are dead or alive." 
 
 " Were they, then, so very unkind to you ? " 
 
 " Neither kind nor unkind. I was about eleven years 
 old, I think, when my mother went off with a soldier. 
 My father, who was a day-labourer, brought home a 
 mistress with him into our garret, and two boys she 
 had, — one six, and the other my own age. She was a 
 barrow-woman. She went on pretty well at first, but 
 after a time, whilst she was out with her fruit, a fish- 
 woman used to come and drink with my father, and 
 this the apple-woman found out. Then, from this time, 
 every evening, we had such battles and rows in the 
 house that I and the two boys were half dead with 
 fright. We all three slept together, for we had but one 
 room. One day, — it was her birthday, Sainte Madeleine's 
 fete, — and she scolded him because he had not con- 
 gratulated her on it. From one word another arose, 
 and my father concluded by breaking her head with the 
 handle of the broom. I really thought he had killed 
 her. She fell like a lump of lead, but la mere Madeleine 
 was hard-lived, and hard-headed also. After that she 
 returned my father with interest all the blows he had 
 given her, and once bit him so savagely in the hand 
 that the piece of flesh remained between her teeth. I 
 must say that these contests were what we may call the 
 grandes eaux at Versailles. On common and working- 
 2G4 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 days the skirmishes were of a lighter sort, — there were 
 bruises, but no blood." 
 
 " Was this woman unkind to you ? " 
 
 " Mere Madeleine ? No ; on the contrary. She was 
 a little hasty, but, otherwise, a good sort of woman 
 enough. But at last my father got tired, and left her 
 and the little furniture we had. He came out of Bur- 
 gundy, and most probably returned to his own country. 
 I was fifteen or sixteen at this time." 
 
 " And were you still with the old mistress of your 
 father?" 
 
 " Where else should I be ? Then she took up with a 
 tiler, who came to lodge with us. Of the two boys of 
 MSre Madeleine, one, the eldest, was drowned at the 
 lie des Cygnes, and the other went apprentice to a 
 carpenter." 
 
 " And what did you do with this woman ? " 
 
 " Oh, I helped to draw her barrow, made the soup, 
 and carried her man his dinner ; and when he came 
 home drunk, which happened oftener than was his turn, 
 I helped Meire Madeleine to keep him in order, for we 
 still lived in the same apartment. He was as vicious 
 as a sandy-haired donkey, v;la.en he was tipsy, and tried 
 to kill us. Once, if we had not snatched his axe from 
 him, he would certainly have murdered us both. M£re 
 Madeleine had a cut on the shoulder, which bled till the 
 room looked like a slaughter-house." 
 
 " And how did you become — what — we — are ? " 
 said Fleur-de-Marie, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Why, little Charley, Madeleine's son, who was after- 
 wards drowned at the lie des Cygnes, was my first lover, 
 almost from the time when he, his mother, and his 
 brother, came to lodge with us when we were but mere 
 children ; after him the tiler was my lover, who threat- 
 ened else to turn me out-of-doors. I was afraid that 
 Mere Madeleine would also send me away if she dis- 
 covered anything. She did, however; but as she was 
 265 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 really a good creature, she said, ' As it is so, and you 
 are sixteen years old, and fit for nothing, for you are too 
 self-willed to take a situation or learn a business, you 
 shall go with me and be inscribed in the police-books ; 
 as you have no relations, I will answer for you, as I 
 brought you up, as one may say ; and that will give you 
 a position authorised by the government, and you will 
 have nothing to do but to be merry and dress smart. I 
 shall have no uneasiness about you, and you will no 
 longer be a charge to me. What do you say to it, my 
 girl ? ' ' Why, I think indeed you are right,' was my 
 answer ; 1 1 had not thought of that.' Well, we went 
 to the Bureau des Mceurs. She answered for me, in the 
 usual way, and from that time I was inscrite. I met 
 Mere Madeleine a year afterwards. I was drinking with 
 my man, and we asked her to join us, and she told us 
 that the tiler had been sentenced to the galleys. 
 Since then I have never seen her, but some one, I don't 
 remember who, declared that she had been seen at the 
 Morgue three months ago. If it were true, really so 
 much the worse, for M&re Madeleine was a good sort of 
 woman, — - her heart was in her hand, and she had no 
 more gall than a pigeon." 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie, though plunged young in an atmos- 
 phere of corruption, had subsequently breathed so pure 
 an air that she experienced a deeply painful sensation 
 at the horrid recital of La Louve. And if we have had 
 the sad courage to make it, it has been because all the 
 world should know that, hideous as it is, it is still 
 a thousand times less revolting than other countless 
 realities. 
 
 Ignorance and misery often conduct the lower classes 
 to these fearful degradations, human and social. 
 
 Yes ; there is a crowd of hovels and dens, where 
 children and adults, girls and boys, legitimate children 
 and bastards, lying pell-mell on the same mattress, have 
 continually before their eyes these infamous examples 
 266 
 
LA LOUYE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 of drunkenness, violence, debauch, and murder. Yes, 
 and too frequently unnatural crimes at the tenderest age 
 add to this accumulation of horrors. 
 
 The rich may shroud their vices in shadow and mys- 
 tery, and respect the sanctity of the domestic hearth, 
 but the most honest artisans, occupying nearly always a 
 single chamber with their family, are compelled, from 
 want of beds and space, to make their children sleep 
 together, sons and daughters, close to themselves, hus- 
 bands and wives. 
 
 If we shudder at the fatal consequences of such neces- 
 sity almost inevitably imposed on poor, but honest 
 artisans, what must it be with workpeople depraved 
 by ignorance or misconduct ? What fearful examples 
 do they not present to unhappy children, abandoned, or 
 rather excited, from their tenderest youth to every 
 brutal impulse and animal propensity ? Have they even 
 the idea of what is right, decent, and modest ? Must 
 they not be as strange to social laws as the savages of 
 the New World ? Poor creatures ! Corrupted at their 
 very birth, who in the prisons, whither their wanderings 
 and idleness often lead them, are already stigmatised by 
 the coarse and terrible metaphor, " Graines de Bagne " 
 (Seeds of the Gaol) ! and the metaphor is a correct 
 one. This sinister prediction is almost invariably ac- 
 complished : the Galleys or the Bridewell, each sex 
 has its destiny. 
 
 We do mot intend here to justify any profligacy. Let 
 us only compare the voluntary degradation of a female 
 carefully educated in the bosom of a wealthy family, 
 which has set her none but the most virtuous examples. 
 Let us compare, we say, this degradation with that of La 
 Louve, a creature, as it were, reared in vice, by vice, 
 and for vice, and to whom is pointed out, not without 
 reason, prostitution as a condition protected by the gov- 
 ernment ! This is true. There is a bureau where she 
 is registered, certificated, and signs her name. A bureau 
 . / -267 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 where a mother has a right to authorise the prostitution 
 of her daughter ; a husband the prostitution of his wife. 
 This place is termed the " Bureau des Moeurs " (the 
 Office of Manners). Must not society have a vice most 
 deeply rooted, incurable in the place of the laws which 
 regulate marriage, when power, — yes, power, — that 
 grave and moral abstraction, is obliged, not only to 
 tolerate, but to regulate, to legalise, to protect, to render 
 it less injurious and dangerous, this sale of body and 
 soul ; which, multiplied by the unbridled appetites of 
 an immense population, acquires daily an almost incal- 
 culable amount. 
 
 Goualeuse, repressing the emotion which this sad 
 confession of her companion had made in her, said to 
 her, timidly : 
 
 " Listen to me without being angry." 
 
 " Well, what have you to say ? I think I have gos- 
 siped enough ; but it is no matter, as it is the last time 
 we shall tall: together." 
 
 " Are you happy, La Louve ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Does the life you lead make you happy ? " 
 
 " Here, — at St. Lazare ? " 
 
 " No ; when you are at home and free." 
 
 " Yes, I am happy." 
 
 " Always ? " 
 
 " Always." 
 
 " You would not change your life for any other ? " 
 " For any other ? What — what other life can there 
 be for me ? " 
 
 " Tell me, La Louve," continued Fleur-de-Marie, after 
 a moment's silence, " don't you sometimes like to build 
 castles in the air ? It is so amusing in prison." 
 
 " Castles in the air ! About what ? " 
 
 " About Martial." 
 
 " About my man ? " 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " Ma foil I never built any." 
 
 " Let me build one for you and Martial." 
 
 44 Bah ! What's the use of it ? " 
 
 " To pass away time." 
 
 " Well, let's have your castle in the air." 
 
 44 Well, then, only imagine that a lucky chance, such 
 as sometimes occurs, brings you in contact with a person 
 who says, 4 Forsaken by your father and mother, your 
 infancy was surrounded by such bad examples that 
 you must be pitied, as much as blamed, for having 
 become — ' " 
 
 44 Become what ? " 
 
 44 What you and I have become," replied Goualeuse, 
 in a soft voice ; and then she continued, " Suppose, 
 then, that this person were to say to you, 4 You love 
 Martial ; he loves you. Do you and he cease to lead an 
 improper life, — instead of being his mistress, become 
 his wife.'" 
 
 La Louve shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 44 Do you think he would have me for his wife ? " 
 
 44 Except poaching, he has never committed any guilty 
 act, has he ? " 
 
 44 No ; he is a poacher in the river, as he was in the 
 woods, and he is right. Why, now, ain't fish like game, 
 for those to have who can catch them ? Where do they 
 bear the proprietor's mark ? " 
 
 44 Well, suppose that, having given up the dangerous 
 trade of marauding on the river, he desires to become 
 an honest man ; suppose he inspires, by the frankness of 
 his good resolutions, so much confidence in an unknown 
 benefactor that he gives him a situation, — let us see, 
 our castle is in the air, — gives him a situation — say as 
 gamekeeper, for instance. Why, I should suppose that, 
 as he had been a poacher, nothing could better suit his 
 taste ; it is the same occupation, but in the right way." 
 
 44 Yes, ma foi ! it would be still to live in the woods." 
 269 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Only he would not have the situation but on condi- 
 tion that he would marry you, and take you with him." 
 " I go with Martial ? " 
 
 « Yes ; why, you said you should be so happy to live 
 together in the depths of the forest. Shouldn't you 
 prefer, instead of the miserable hut of the poacher, in 
 which you would hide like guilty creatures, to have a 
 neat little cottage, which you would take care of as the 
 active and hard-working housekeeper ? " 
 
 " You are making game of me. Can this be possible ? " 
 
 " Who knows what may happen ? But it's only a 
 castle in the air." 
 
 " Ah, if it's only that, all very well ! " 
 
 " La Louve, I think that I already see you established 
 in your little home in the depths of the forest, with your 
 husband and two or three children. Children, — what 
 happiness ! Are they not ? " 
 
 " The children of my man ! " exclaimed La Louve, 
 with intense eagerness. " Ah, yes ! They would be 
 dearly loved, — they would ! " 
 
 " How they would keep you company in your solitude ! 
 And, then, when they grew up they would be able to 
 render you great service : the youngest would pick up 
 the dead branches for fuel ; the eldest would go into the 
 grass of the forest to watch a cow or two, which they 
 would give you as a reward for your husband's activity, 
 for as he had been a poacher he would make a better 
 keeper." 
 
 " To be sure ; that's true enough. But really your 
 castles in the air are very amusing. Go on, Goualeuse." 
 
 " They would be very much satisfied with your hus- 
 band, and you would have some allowances from your 
 master, a poultry-yard, a garden ; and, in fact, you would 
 have to work very hard, La Louve, from morning till 
 night." 
 
 " Oh, if that were all, if I once had my good man near 
 me, I should not be afraid of work ! I have stout arms." 
 270 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 " And you would have plenty to employ them, I will 
 answer for that. There is so much to do, — so much to 
 do ! There is the stable to clean, the meals to get 
 ready, the clothes to mend ; to-day is washing day, next 
 day there's the bread to bake, or perhaps the house to 
 clean from top to bottom ; and, then, the other keepers 
 would say, ' There is no such manager as Martial's wife ; 
 from the cellar to the garret, in her house, it is a pattern 
 of cleanliness, and the children are taken such care of ! 
 But then she is so very industrious, Madame Martial.' " 
 
 " Really though, La Goualeuse, is it true ? I should 
 call myself Madame Martial," said La Louve, with a sort 
 of pride, — " Madame Martial ! " 
 
 " Which is better than being called La Louve, — is it 
 not?" 
 
 " Pardieu ! Why, there's no doubt but I should rather 
 be called by my man's name than the name of a wild 
 beast ; but — bah ! — bah ! louve I was born, louve I shall 
 die!" 
 
 " Who knows ? Who can say ? Not to shrink from 
 a life that is hard, but honest, will ensure success. So, 
 then, work would not frighten you ? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly not ! It is not a husband and four or 
 five brats to take care of that would give me any trouble ! " 
 
 " But then it would not be all work ; there are 
 moments for rest. In the winter evenings, when the 
 children were put to bed, and your husband smoked his 
 pipe whilst he was cleaning his gun or caressing his dogs, 
 you would have a little leisure." 
 
 "Leisure, — sit with my arms crossed before me! 
 Ma foil No, I would rather mend the linen, by the side 
 of the fire in the evening. That is not a very hard job, 
 and in winter the days are so short." 
 
 As Fleur-de-Marie proceeded, La Louve forgot more 
 and more of the present for the dreams of the future, as 
 deeply interested as La Goualeuse had been before her, 
 when Rodolph had talked to her of the rustic delights of 
 271 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 the Bouqueval farm. La Louve did not attempt to con- 
 ceal the wild tastes with which her lover had inspired 
 her. Remembering the deep and wholesome impression 
 which she had experienced from the smiling picture of 
 Rodolph in relation to a country life, Fleur-de-Marie was 
 desirous of trying the same means of action on La Louve, 
 thinking, with reason, that, if her companion was so far 
 affected at the sketch of a rude, poor, and solitary life, 
 as to desire ardently such an existence, she merited 
 interest and pity. Delighted to see her companion listen 
 to her with attention, La Goualeuse continued, smiling : 
 
 "And then you see, Madame Martial, — let me call 
 you so, — what does it matter — " 
 
 " Quite the contrary ; it natters me." Then La Louve 
 shrugged her shoulders, and, smiling, also added, " What 
 folly to play at madame ! Are we children ? Well, it's 
 all the same ; go on, — it's quite amusing. You said — " 
 
 " I was saying, Madame Martial, that in speaking of 
 your life, the winter in the thickest of the woods, we 
 were only alluding to the worst of the seasons." 
 
 " Ma foi ! No, that is not the worst. To hear the wind 
 whistle all night in the forest, and the wolves howl from 
 time to time far off, very far off, — I shouldn't tire of 
 that; provided I was at the fireside with my man and 
 my children, or even quite alone, if my man was going 
 his rounds. Ah, I am not afraid of a gun! If I had 
 my children to defend, I could do that, — the wolf would 
 guard her cubs ! " 
 
 " Oh, I can well believe you ! You are very brave — 
 you are ; but I am a coward. I prefer spring to the 
 winter, when the leaves are green, when the pretty wild 
 flowers bloom, and they smell so sweet, so sweet that the 
 air is quite scented ; and then your children would roll 
 about so merrily in the fresh grass ; and then the forest 
 would be so thick that you could hardly see your house 
 in the midst of the foliage, — I can fancy that I see it 
 now. In front of the house is a vine full of leaves, which 
 272 
 
LA LOUYE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 your husband has planted, and which shades the bank 
 of turf where he sleeps during the noonday heat, whilst 
 you are going backwards and forwards desiring the chil- 
 dren not to wake their father. I don't know whether 
 you have remarked it, but in the heat of summer about 
 midday there is in the woods as deep silence as at 
 midnight, you don't hear the leaves shake, nor the birds 
 sing." 
 
 " Yes, that's true," replied La Louve, almost me- 
 chanically, who became more and more forgetful of the 
 reality, and almost believed she saw before her the smil- 
 ing pictures which the poetical imagination of Fleur- 
 de-Marie, so instinctively amorous of the beauties of 
 nature, presented before her. 
 
 Delighted at the deep attention which her companion 
 lent her, La Goualeuse continued, allowing herself to be 
 drawn on by the charm of the thoughts which she called 
 up: 
 
 " There is one thing which I love almost as well as the 
 silence of the woods, and that is the noise of the heavy 
 drops of rain falling on the leaves ; do you like that, too ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I am very fond of a summer shower." 
 
 " So am I ; and when the trees, the moss, and the 
 grass, are all moistened, what a delightfully fresh odour 
 they give out ! And then, how the sun, as it passes over 
 the trees, makes all the little drops of water glisten as 
 they hang from the leaves ! Have you ever noticed that ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I remember it now because you tell me of it. 
 Yet, how droll all this is ! But, Goualeuse, you talk so 
 well that one seems to see everything, — to see every- 
 thing just as you talk ; and then, I really do not know 
 how to explain it all. But now, what you say seems 
 good, it is quite pleasant, — just like the rain we were 
 talking of." 
 
 " Oh, don't suppose that we are the only creatures 
 who love a summer shower ! The dear little birds, how 
 delighted they are ! How they shake their feathers, whilst 
 273 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 they warble so joyously ; not more joyously, though, 
 than your children, — your children as free, and gay, 
 and light-hearted as they ! And then, look ! as the day 
 declines the youngest children run across the wood to 
 meet the elder, who brings back the two heifers from 
 pasture, for they have heard the tinkling of the bell in 
 the distance ! " 
 
 " Yes, Goualeuse, and I think I see the smallest and 
 boldest, whom his brother has put astride on the back of 
 one of the cows." 
 
 " And one would say that the poor animal knows 
 what burden she bears, she steps so carefully. But it is 
 supper-time ; your eldest child, whilst he has been tend- 
 ing the cows at pasture, has amused himself with 
 gathering for you a basket of beautiful strawberries, 
 which he has brought quite fresh under a thick covering 
 of wild violets." 
 
 " Strawberries and violets, — ah, what a lovely smell 
 they have ! But where the deuce did you find all these 
 ideas, La Goualeuse ? " 
 
 " In the woods, where the strawberries ripen and the 
 violets blow, you have only to look and gather them — 
 But let us go on with our housekeeping. It is night, and 
 you must milk your heifers, prepare your supper under 
 the shelter of the vine, for you hear your husband's dogs 
 bark, and then their master's voice, who, tired as he is, 
 comes home singing, — and who could not sing when on 
 a fine summer's eve with cheerful heart you return to the 
 house where a good wife and five children are waiting 
 for you ? — eh, Madame Martial ? " 
 
 " True, true ; one could not but sing," replied La 
 Louve, becoming more and more thoughtful. 
 
 " Unless one weeps for joy," continued Fleur-de-Marie, 
 herself much touched, " and such tears are as sweet as 
 songs. And then, when night has completely come, 
 what a pleasure to sit in the arbour and enjoy the calm- 
 ness of a fine evening, to breathe the sweet odour of the 
 274 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 forest, to hear the prattle of the children, to look at the 
 stars, then the heart is so full, — so full that it must 
 pour out its prayer ; it must thank him to whom we are 
 indebted for the freshness of the evening, the sweet scent 
 of the woods, the gentle brightness of the starry sky ! 
 After this thanksgiving or this prayer, we go to sleep 
 tranquilly till the next day, and then again thank our 
 Creator. And this poor, hard-working, but calm and 
 honest life, is the same each and every day." 
 
 "Every day!" repeated La Louve, with her head 
 drooping on her chest, her look fixed, her breast op- 
 pressed, " for it is true the good God is good to give us 
 wherewithal to live upon, and to make us happy with so 
 little." 
 
 " Well, tell me now," continued Pleur-de-Marie, gently, 
 — "tell me, ought not he to be blessed, after God, who 
 should give you this peaceable and laborious life, instead 
 of the wretched existence you lead in the mud of the 
 streets of Paris?" 
 
 This word Paris suddenly recalled La Louve to reality. 
 
 A strange phenemenon had taken place in the mind 
 of this creature. 
 
 The simple painting of a humble and rude condition 
 — the mere recital by turns — lighted up by the soft 
 rays from the domestic hearth, gilded by some joyful 
 sunbeams, refreshed by the breeze of the great woods, 
 or perfumed by the odour of wild flowers, — this narra- 
 tive had made on La Louve a more profound or more 
 sensible impression than could an exhortation of the 
 most pious morality have effected. 
 
 In truth, in proportion as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La 
 Louve had longed to be, and meant to be, an indefatiga- 
 ble manager, a worthy wife, an affectionate and devoted 
 mother. 
 
 To inspire, even for an instant, a violent, immoral, 
 and degraded woman with a love of home, respect for 
 duty, a taste for labour, and gratitude towards her 
 275 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 Creator; and that, by only promising her what God 
 gives to all, the sun, the sky, and the depths of the 
 forest, — what society owes to those who lack a roof and 
 a loaf, — was, indeed, a glorious triumph for Fleur- 
 de-Marie ! Could the most severe moralist — the most 
 overpowering preacher — have obtained more in threat- 
 ening, in their monotonous and menacing orations, all 
 human vengeances — all divine thunders ? 
 
 The painful anger with which La Louve was possessed 
 when she returned to the reality, after having allowed 
 herself to be charmed by the new and wholesome reverie 
 in which, for the first time, Fleur-de-Marie had plunged 
 her, proved the influence of her words on her unfortu- 
 nate companion. The more bitter were La Louve's 
 regrets when she fell back from this consoling delusion 
 to the horrors of her real position, the greater was La 
 Goualeuse's triumph. After a moment's silence and 
 reflection, La Louve raised her head suddenly, passed 
 her hand over her brow, and rose threatening and angry. 
 
 " See, see ! I had reason to mistrust you, and to 
 desire not to listen to you, because it would turn to ill 
 for me ! Why did you talk thus to me ? Why make a 
 jest of me ? Why mock me ? And because I have been 
 so weak as to say to you that I should like to live in 
 the depths of a forest with my man. Who are you, 
 then, that you should make a fool of me in this way ? 
 You, miserable girl, don't know what you have done ! 
 Now, in spite of myself, I shall always be thinking of 
 this forest, the house, and — and — the children — and 
 all that happiness which I shall never have — never — 
 never ! And if I cannot forget what you have told me, 
 why, my life will be one eternal punishment, — a hell, — 
 and that by your fault ! Yes, by your fault ! " 
 
 " So much the better ! Oh, so much the better ! " said 
 Fleur-de-Marie. 
 
 " You say, so much the better ! " exclaimed La Louve, 
 with her eyes glaring. 
 
 276 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 "Yes, — so much the better! For if your present 
 miserable life appears to you a hell, you will prefer that 
 of which I have spoken to you." 
 
 " What is the use of preferring it, since it is not des- 
 tined for me ? What is the use of regretting that I 
 walk the streets, since I shall die in the streets ? " ex- 
 claimed La Louve, more and more irritated, and taking 
 in her powerful grasp the small hand of Fleur-de-Marie. 
 " Answer — answer ! Why do you try to make me 
 desire that which I cannot have." 
 
 " To desire an honest and industrious life is to be 
 worthy of that life, as I have already told you," replied 
 Fleur-de-Marie, without attempting to disengage her 
 hand. 
 
 " Well, and what then ? Suppose I am worthy, what 
 does that prove ? How much the better off will that 
 make me ? " 
 
 " To see realised what you consider as a dream," 
 answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so serious and full of 
 conviction that La Louve, again under control, let go 
 La Goualeuse's hand, and gazed at her in amazement. 
 
 " Listen to me, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, in a 
 voice full of feeling ; " do you think me so wicked as to 
 excite such ideas and hopes in you, if I were not sure 
 that, whilst I made you blush at your present condition, 
 I gave you the means to quit it ? " 
 
 " You ! You can do this ? " 
 
 " I ! No ; but some one who is good, and great, and 
 powerful." 
 
 " Great and powerful ? " 
 
 " Listen, La Louve. Three months ago I was, like 
 you, a lost, an abandoned creature. One day he of whom 
 I speak to you with tears of gratitude," — and Fleur-de- 
 Marie wiped her eyes, — " one day he came to me, and 
 he was not afraid, abased and despised as I was, to say 
 comforting words to me, the first I had ever heard. I 
 told him my sufferings, my miseries, my shame ; I con- 
 277 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 cealed nothing from him, just as you have related to me 
 all your past life, La Louve. After having listened to - 
 me with kindness, he did not blame, but pitied me ; he 
 did not even reproach me with my disgraceful position, 
 but talked to me of the calm and pure life which was 
 found in the country." 
 " As you did just now ? " 
 
 " Then my situation appeared to me the more fright- 
 ful, in proportion as the future he held out to me seemed 
 more beautiful." 
 
 " Like me ? " 
 
 " Yes, and so I said as you did, — What use, alas ! is 
 it to make me fancy this paradise, — me, who am 
 chained to hell ? But I was wrong to despair ; for he 
 of whom I speak is so good, so just, that he is incapable 
 of making a false hope shine in the eyes of a poor crea- 
 ture who asked no one for pity, happiness, or hope." 
 
 " And what did he do for you ? " 
 
 " He treated me like a sick child. I was, like you, 
 immersed in a corrupted air, and he sent me to breathe 
 a wholesome and reviving atmosphere. I was also living 
 amongst hideous and criminal beings, and he confided 
 me to persons as good as himself, who have purified my 
 soul and elevated my mind ; for he communicates to all 
 those who love and respect him a spark of his own re- 
 fined intelligence. Yes, if my words move you, La 
 Louve, if my tears make your tears flow, it is that his 
 mind and thought inspire me. If I speak to you of the 
 happier future which you will obtain by repentance, it is 
 because I can promise you this future in his name, al- 
 though, at this moment, he is ignorant of the engage- 
 ment I make. In fact, I say to you, Hope ! because he 
 always listens to the voice of those who desire to become 
 better ; for God sent him on earth to make people believe 
 in his providence ! " 
 
 As she spoke, Fleur-de-Marie's countenance became 
 radiant, and her pale cheeks suffused with a delicate car- 
 278 
 
LA LOUYE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 nation ; her beautiful eyes sparkled, and she appeared 
 so touchingly beautiful that La Louve gazed on her 
 with respectful admiration, and said : 
 
 " Where am I ? Do I dream ? Who are you, then ? 
 Oh, I was right when I said you were not one of us ! 
 But, then, you talk so well, — you, who can do so much, 
 you, who know such powerful people, how is it that you 
 are here, a prisoner with us ? " 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame 
 Armand came up and interrupted her, to conduct her 
 to Madame d'Harville. La Louve remained over- 
 whelmed with surprise, and the inspectress said to 
 her : 
 
 " I see, with pleasure, that the presence of La Goua- 
 leuse in the prison has brought good fortune to you and 
 your companions. I know you have made a subscrip- 
 tion for poor Mont Saint-Jean ; that is kind and chari- 
 table, La Louve, and will be of service to you. I was 
 sure that you were better than you allowed yourself tf. 
 appear. In recompense for this kind action, I think I 
 can promise you that the term of your imprisonment 
 shall be shortened by several days." 
 
 Madame Armand then walked away, followed by 
 Fleur-de-Marie. 
 
 We must not be astonished at the almost eloquent lan- 
 guage of Fleur-de-Marie, when we remember that her 
 mind, so wonderfully gifted, had rapidly developed itself, 
 thanks to the education and instruction she had received 
 at Bouqueval farm. 
 
 The young girl was, indeed, strong in her experience. 
 
 The sentiments she had awakened in the heart of La 
 Louve had been awakened in her own heart by Rodolph, 
 and under almost similar circumstances. 
 
 Believing that she detected some good instincts in her 
 companion, she had endeavoured to lure her back to 
 honesty, by proving to her (according to Rodolph's 
 279 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 theory, applied to the farm at Bouqueval) that it was 
 her interest to become honest, by pointing out to her 
 restitution to the paths of rectitude in smiling and 
 attractive colours. 
 
 And here let us repeat that, in our opinion, an incom- 
 plete as well as stupid and inefficacious mode is em- 
 ployed to inspire the poor and ignorant classes with a 
 hatred of evil and a love of good. 
 
 In order to turn them away from the bad path, they 
 are incessantly threatened with divine and human ven- 
 geance ; incessantly a sinister clank is sounded in their 
 ears : prison-keep, fetters, handcuffs ; and, in the dis- 
 tance, in dark shadow, at the extreme horizon of crime, 
 they have their attention directed to the executioner's 
 axe glittering amidst the glare of everlasting flames. 
 We observe that the intimidation is constant, fearful, 
 and appalling. To him who does ill, imprisonment, in- 
 famy, punishment. This is just. But to him who does 
 well does society award noble gifts, glorious distinc- 
 tions ? No. 
 
 Does society encourage resignation, order, probity, in 
 that immense mass of artisans who are for ever doomed 
 to toil and privation, and almost always to profound 
 misery, by benevolent rewards ? No. 
 
 Is the scaffold which the criminal ascends a protec- 
 tion for the man of integrity ? No. 
 
 Strange and fatal symbol ! Justice is represented as 
 blind, bearing in one hand a sword to punish, and in the 
 other scales in which she weighs accusation and defence. 
 This is not the image of Justice. This is the image of 
 Law, or, rather, of the man who condemns or acquits 
 according to his conscience. Justice should hold in one 
 hand a sword, and in the other a crown, — one to strike 
 the wicked, and the other to recompense the good. The 
 people would then see that, if there is a terrible punish- 
 ment for evil, there is a brilliant recompense for good ; 
 whilst as it is, in their plain and simple sense, the peo- 
 280 
 
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 pie seek in vain for the contrary side of tribunals, gaols, 
 galleys, and scaffolds. The people see plainly a criminal 
 justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, enlightened men, 
 always employed in searching out, detecting, and pun- 
 ishing the evil-doers. They do not see the virtuous 
 justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, and enlightened 
 men, always searching out and rewarding the honest 
 man. All says to him, Tremble ! Nothing says to him, 
 Hope ! All threatens him ; nothing consoles him ! 
 
 The state annually expends many millions for the 
 sterile punishment of crimes. With this enormous sum 
 it keeps prisoners and gaolers, galley-slaves and galley- 
 sergeants, scaffolds and executioners. This is neces- 
 sary ? Agreed. But how much does the state disburse 
 for the rewards (so salutary, so fruitful) for honest 
 men ? Nothing. And this is not all, as we shall dem- 
 onstrate when the course of this recital shall conduct us 
 to the state prison ; how many artisans of irreproachable 
 honesty would attain the summit of their wishes if they 
 were assured of enjoying one day the bodily comforts of 
 prisoners, always certain of good food, good bed, and 
 good shelter ? And yet, in the name of their dignity, 
 as honest men, long and painfully tried, have they not 
 a right to claim the same care and comforts as crimi- 
 nals, — such, for instance, as Morel, the lapidary, who 
 had toiled for twenty years, industrious, honest, and 
 resigned, in the midst of bitter misery and sore tempta- 
 tions ? Do not such men deserve sufficiently well of 
 society, that society should try and find them out, and 
 if not recompense them, for the honour of humanity, at 
 least support them in the painful and difficult path which 
 they tread so courageously ? Is the man of worth so 
 modest that he finds greater security than the thief or 
 assassin ? and are not these always detected by criminal 
 justice ? Alas, it is a utopia, but it is consoling ! 
 
 Suppose, for the moment, a society were so organised 
 that it would hold an assizes of virtue, as we have 
 281 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 assizes of crime, — a public ministry pointing out noble 
 actions, disclosing them to the view of all, as we now 
 denounce crimes to the avenging power of the laws. 
 We will give two instances — two justices — and let 
 our readers say which is most fruitful in instruction, in 
 consequences, in positive results. One man has killed 
 another, for the purpose of robbing him ; at break of 
 day they stealthily erect the guillotine in an obscure 
 corner of Paris and cut off the assassin's head before 
 the dregs of the populace, which laughs at the judge, 
 the sufferer, and the executioner. This is the last resort 
 of society. This is the chastisement she bestows on 
 the greatest crime which can be committed against her. 
 This u the most terrible, the most wholesome warning 
 she can give to her population, — the only one, for there 
 is no counterpoise to this keen axe, dripping with blood ; 
 no, society has no spectacle, mild and benevolent, to 
 oppose to this funereal scene. 
 
 Let us go on with our utopia. Would it not be other- 
 wise if almost every day the people had before their 
 eyes some illustrious virtues greatly glorified and sub- 
 stantially rewarded by the state ? Would it not be to 
 encourage good continually, if we often saw an august, 
 imposing, and venerable tribunal summon before it, in 
 presence of an immense multitude, a poor and honest 
 artisan, whose long, intelligent, and enduring life should 
 be described, whilst he was thus addressed : 
 
 " For twenty years you have manfully struggled 
 against misfortune, your family has been brought up 
 by you in the principles of honour and rectitude, your 
 superior virtues have greatly distinguished you, — you 
 merit praise and recompense. Society, always vigilant, 
 just, and all-powerful, never leaves in oblivion either 
 good or evil. Every man is recompensed according to 
 his works. The state assures to you a pension sufficient 
 for your wants. Obtaining this deserved mark of public 
 notice, you will end in leisure and ease a life which is 
 282 
 
LA LOUYE AND LA GOUALEUSE. 
 
 an example to all ; and thus are and will be exalted 
 those who, like yourself, shall have struggled for many 
 years with an admirable persistence in good, and given 
 proof of rare and grand moral qualities. Your example 
 will encourage a great many to imitate you ; hope will 
 lighten the painful burden which their destiny imposes 
 on them for so many years of their life. Animated by 
 a salutary emulation, they will energetically struggle to 
 accomplish the most arduous duties, in order that one 
 day they may be distinguished from the rest, and rewarded 
 as you are." 
 
 We ask, which of the two sights — the beheaded 
 assassin, or the good man Rewarded — would act on the 
 million with more salutary and more fruitful effect ? 
 
 No doubt many delicate minds wi 1 ! be indignant at 
 the bare thought of these ignoble substantial rewards 
 awarded to the most ethereal thing in the world, — 
 Virtue ! They will find all sorts of arguments, more or 
 less philosophical, platonic, theological, and especially 
 economic, against such a proposition ; such as, " Virtue 
 is its own reward ; " " Virtue is a priceless gem ; " " The 
 satisfaction of the conscience ic the noblest of recom- 
 penses ; " and, finally, this triumphant and unanswerable 
 objection, " The eternal happiness which awaits the just 
 in another life ought to be sufficient to encourage man- 
 kind to do well." To this we reply that society, in 
 order to intimidate and punish the guilty, does not 
 appear to us to rely entirely and exclusively on the 
 divine vengeance, which they tell us will visit them in 
 another world. Society anticipates the last judgment 
 by human judgments. Awaiting the inexorable hour 
 of the archangels in armour, with sounding trumpets 
 and fiery swords, society modestly comforts herself 
 with — gens-d? armes. 
 
 We repeat, to terrify the wicked, we materialise, or 
 rather we reduce to human, perceptible, and visible 
 proportions, the anticipated effects of divine wrath. 
 283 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Why should we not do the same with the divine 
 rewards to worthy and virtuous people ? 
 
 But let us leave these mad, absurd, stupid, impracti- 
 cable utopianisms, like real utopianisms, as they are. 
 Society is as well as it is. Ask those merry souls, who, 
 with uncertain step, stupid look, and noisy laugh, have 
 just quitted the gay banquet, if it is not. 
 
 284 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE PROTECTRESS. 
 
 The inspectress soon entered with Goualeuse into the 
 little room where Cle'mence was staying. The pale cheek 
 of the young girl was still slightly coloured in conse- 
 quence of her conversation with La Louve. 
 
 " Madame la Marquise, pleased with the excellent 
 character I have given of you," said Madame Armand 
 to Fleur-de-Marie, " has desired to see you, and will, 
 perhaps, be so good as to have you released from here 
 before the expiration of your time." 
 
 " I thank you, madame," replied Fleur-de-Marie, 
 timidly, to Madame Armand, who left her alone with 
 the marchioness. 
 
 The latter, struck by the candid expression of her 
 protegee's features, and by her carriage, so full of grace 
 and modesty, could not help remembering that La 
 Goualeuse had pronounced the name of Rodolph in her 
 sleep, and that the inspectress believed the youthful 
 prisoner to be a prey to deep and hidden love. Although 
 perfectly convinced that it could not be a question as to 
 the Grand Duke Rodolph, Clemence acknowledged to 
 herself that, with regard to beauty, La Goualeuse was 
 worthy of a prince's love. 
 
 At the sight of her protectress, whose physiognomy, 
 as we have said, displayed excessive goodness, Fleur-de- 
 Marie felt herself sympathetically attracted towards 
 her. 
 
 " My girl," said Cle'mence to her, " whilst commend- 
 
 285 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 ing the gentleness of your disposition and the discreet- 
 ness of your behaviour, Madame Armand complains of 
 your want of confidence in her." 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie bowed her look, but did not reply. 
 
 " The peasant's dress in which you were clad when 
 you were apprehended, your silence on the subject of 
 the place where you resided before you were brought 
 here, prove that you conceal certain particulars from us." 
 
 " Madame — " 
 
 " I have no right to your confidence, my poor child, 
 nor would I ask you any question that would distress 
 you ; but, as I am assured that if I request your dis- 
 charge from prison it will be accorded to me, before I 
 do so I should wish to talk to you of your own plans, 
 your resources for the future. Once free, what do you 
 propose to do ? If, as I doubt not, you decide on follow- 
 ing the good path you have already entered upon, have 
 confidence in me, and I will put you in the way of 
 gaining an honest subsistence." 
 
 La Goualeuse was moved to tears at the interest 
 which Madame d'Harville evinced for her. After a 
 moment's hesitation, she replied : 
 
 " You are very good, madame, to show so much 
 benevolence towards me, — so generous, that I ought, 
 perhaps, to break the silence which I have hitherto kept 
 on the past, to which I was forced by an oath — " 
 
 "An oath?" 
 
 " Yes, madame, I have sworn to be secret to justice, 
 and the persons employed in this prison, as to the 
 series of events by which I was brought hither. Yet, 
 madame, if you will make me a promise — " 
 
 " Of what nature ? " 
 
 " To keep my secret. I may, thanks to you, madame, 
 without breaking my oath, comfort most worthy persons 
 who, no doubt, are excessively uneasy on my account." 
 
 " Rely on my discretion. I will only say what you 
 authorise me to disclose." 
 
 286 
 
THE PROTECTRESS. 
 
 " Oh, thanks, madame ! I was so fearful that my 
 silence towards my benefactors would appear like 
 ingratitude ! " 
 
 The gentle accents of Fleur-de-Marie, and her well- 
 selected phrases, struck Madame d'Harville with fresh 
 surprise. 
 
 " I will not conceal from you," said she, " that your 
 demeanour, your language, all surprise me in a remark- 
 able degree. How could you, with an education which 
 appears polished, — how could you — " 
 
 " Fall so low, you would say, madame ? " said Goua- 
 leuse, with bitterness. " Alas ! It is but a very short 
 time that I have received this education. I owe this 
 benefit to a generous protector, who, like you, madame, 
 without knowing me, without even having the favourable 
 recommendation which you have received in my favour, 
 took pity upon me — " 
 
 " And who is this protector ? " 
 
 " I do not know, madame." 
 
 " You do not know ? " 
 
 " He only makes himself known, they tell me, by his 
 inexhaustible goodness. Thanks be to Heaven, he found 
 me in his path ! " 
 
 " And when did you first meet ? " 
 
 "One night, — in the Cite", madame," said Goualeuse, 
 lowering her eyes, " a man was going to beat me ; this 
 unknown benefactor defended me courageously ; this was 
 my first meeting with him." 
 
 " Then he was one of the people ? " 
 
 "The first time I saw him he had the dress and 
 language; but afterwards — " 
 
 " Afterwards ? " 
 
 " The way in which he spoke to me, the profound 
 respect with which he was treated by the persons to 
 whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had 
 only assumed the exterior disguise of one of the men 
 who are seen about the CiteV' 
 287 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " But with what motive ?" 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " And do you know the name of this mysterious 
 protector ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, madame," said La Goualeuse, with excite- 
 ment ; " thank Heaven ! For I can incessantly bless and 
 adore that name. My preserver is called M. Rodolph, 
 madame." 
 
 C16mence blushed deeply. 
 
 "And has he no other name," she asked, quickly, 
 of Fleur-de-Marie. 
 
 " I know no other, madame. In the farm, where he 
 sent me, he was only known as M. Rodolph." 
 
 " And his age ? " 
 
 " Still young, madame." 
 
 " And handsome ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Handsome, — noble as his own heart." 
 
 The grateful and impassioned accent with which 
 Fleur-de-Marie uttered these words caused a deeply 
 painful sensation in Madame d'Harville's bosom. An 
 unconquerable and inexplicable presentiment told her 
 that it was indeed the prince. "The remarks of the 
 inspectress were just," thought Clemence. " Goualeuse 
 loves Rodolph ; that was the name which she pronounced 
 in her sleep. Under what strange circumstance had the 
 prince and this unfortunate girl met ? Why did Rodolph 
 go disguised into the Cite* ? " 
 
 The marquise could not resolve these questions. 
 She only remembered what Sarah had wickedly and 
 mendaciously told her as to the pretended eccentrici- 
 ties of Rodolph. Was it not, in fact, strange that he 
 should have extricated from the dregs of society a girl 
 of such excessive loveliness, and evidently so intelligent 
 and sensible ? 
 
 Cle'mence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, 
 and deeply loved Rodolph, although she had resolved to 
 bury that secret in her heart's very core. 
 
 288 
 
THE PROTECTRESS. 
 
 Without reflecting that this was unquestionably but 
 one of those generous actions which the prince was 
 accustomed to do by stealth, without considering that 
 she was, perchance, confounding with love a sentiment 
 that was but excess of gratitude, without considering 
 that, even if this feeling were more tender, Rodolph 
 must be ignorant of it, the marchioness, in the first 
 moment of bitterness and injustice, could not help look- 
 ing on Goualeuse as her rival. Her pride revolted when 
 she believed she was suffering, in spite of herself, with 
 such a humiliating rivalry ; and she replied, in a tone 
 so harsh as to contrast cruelly with the affectionate 
 kindness of her first words: 
 
 "And how is it, then, mademoiselle, that your pro- 
 tector leaves you in prison ? How comes it that you 
 are here?" 
 
 " Oh, madame," said Fleur-de-Marie, struck at this 
 sudden change of tone, " have I done anything to 
 displease you ? " 
 
 "In what could you have displeased me?" asked 
 Madame d'Harville, haughtily. 
 
 " It appeared to me just now that you spoke to me so 
 kindly, madame." 
 
 " Really, mademoiselle, is it necessary that I should 
 weigh every word I utter ? Since I take an interest 
 in you, I have, I think, a right to ask you certain 
 Questions ! " 
 
 Scarcely had Clemence uttered these words, than she 
 regretted their severity ; first from a praiseworthy return 
 of generosity, and then because she thought by being 
 harsh with her rival she might not learn any more of 
 what she was so anxious to know. In fact, Goualeuse's 
 countenance, just now so open and confiding, became 
 suddenly alarmed. Like the sensitive plant, which, on 
 the first touch, curls up its leaves and withdraws within 
 itself, the heart of Fleur-de-Marie became painfully con- 
 tracted. Clemence replied, gently, in order that she 
 
 289 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 might not awaken her protdgeVs suspicions by too 
 sudden a return to a milder tone : 
 
 " Really I must repeat that I cannot understand why, 
 having so much to praise your benefactor for, you are 
 left here a prisoner. How is it that, after having returned 
 with all sincerity to the paths of rectitude, you could 
 have been apprehended, at night, in a forbidden place ? 
 All this, I confess to you, appears to me very extraor- 
 dinary. You speak of an oath, which has bound you 
 to silence ; but this very oath is so strange ! " 
 
 " I have spoken the truth, madame — " 
 
 " I am sure of that ; it is only to see and hear you to 
 be convinced that you are incapable of falsehood; but 
 what is so incomprehensible in your situation makes me 
 the more curious and impatient to have it cleared up; 
 and to this alone must you attribute the abruptness of 
 my language just now. I was wrong, I feel I was, for, 
 although I have no claim to your confidence beyond my 
 anxious desire to be of service to you, yet you have 
 offered to disclose to me what you have not yet told to 
 any person; and I can assure you, my poor girl, that 
 this proof of your confidence in the interest I feel for 
 you touches me very nearly. I promise you to keep 
 your secret most scrupulously, if you confide it to me, 
 and I will do everything in my power to effect what 
 you may wish to have done." 
 
 Thanks to this skilful patching up (the phrase will be 
 excused, we trust), Madame d'Harville regained La 
 Goualeuse's confidence, which had been for a moment 
 repressed. Fleur-de-Marie, in her candDur, reproached 
 herself for having wrongly interpreted the words which 
 had wounded her. 
 
 " Excuse me, madame," she said to Cle'mence ; " I 
 was, no doubt, wrong not to tell you at once what you 
 desired to know, but you asked me for the name of my 
 preserver, and, in spite of myself, I could not resist the 
 pleasure of speaking of him." 
 
 290 
 
THE PROTECTRESS. 
 
 " Nothing could be more praiseworthy, and it proves 
 how truly grateful you are to him. Tell me how it was 
 that you left the worthy people with whom you were, no 
 doubt, placed by M. Rodolph ? Is it to this event that 
 the oath you were compelled to take, refers ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame ; but, thanks to you, I think I may 
 still keep my word faithfully, and, at the same time, 
 inform my benefactors as to my disappearance." 
 
 " Now, then, my poor girl, I am all attention to you." 
 
 " It is three months nearly since M. Rodolph placed 
 me at a farm, which is situated four or five leagues from 
 Paris — " 
 
 " Did M. Rodolph take you there himself ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, and confided me to the charge of a - 
 worthy lady, as good as she was venerable ; and I loved 
 her like my mother. She and the cure* of the village, at 
 the request of M. Rodolph, took charge of my education." 
 
 "And M. — Rodolph, — did he often come to the 
 farm?" 
 
 " No, madame, he only came three times during the 
 whole time I was there." 
 
 Cle'mence's heart throbbed with joy. 
 
 " And when he came to see you that made you very 
 happy, did it not ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, madame ! It was more than happiness to 
 me ; it was a feeling mingled with gratitude, respect, 
 adoration, and even a degree of fear." 
 
 "Of fear?" 
 
 " Between him and me, between him and others, the 
 distance is so great ! " 
 
 " But what, then, was his rank ? " 
 
 " I do not know that he had any rank, madame." 
 
 " Yet you allude to the distance which exists between 
 him and others." 
 
 " Oh, madame, what places him above all the rest of 
 the world is the elevation of his character, his inexhaust- 
 ible generosity towards those who suffer, the enthusiasm 
 291 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 which he inspires in every one. The wicked, even, 
 cannot hear his name without trembling, and respect 
 as much as they dread him ! But forgive me, madame, 
 for still speaking of him. I ought to be silent, for I 
 seek to give you an adequate idea of him who ought to 
 be adored in silence. I might as well try to express by 
 words the goodness of Heaven ! " 
 " This comparison — " 
 
 " Is, perhaps, sacrilegious, madame ; but will it offend 
 the good God to compare to him one who has given me 
 the consciousness of good and evil, one who has snatched 
 me from the abyss, one, in fact, to whom I owe a new 
 existence ? " 
 
 " I do not blame you, my child ; I can understand all 
 your noble exaggerations. But how was it that you 
 abandoned this farm, where you must have been so 
 happy ? " 
 
 " Alas, not voluntarily, madame ! " 
 
 " Who, then, forced you away ? " 
 
 " One evening, some days since," said Fleur-de-Marie, 
 trembling even as she spoke, " I was going towards the 
 parsonage-house in the village, when a wicked woman, 
 who had used me very cruelly during my infancy, and a 
 man, her accomplice, who had concealed themselves in 
 a ravine, threw themselves upon me, and, after having 
 gagged me, carried me off in a hackney-coach." 
 
 " For what purpose ? " 
 
 " I know not, madame. My ravishers, as I think, 
 were acting in conformity to orders from some powerful 
 personages." 
 
 " What followed this ? " 
 
 " Scarcely was the hackney-coach in motion, than the 
 wicked creature, who is called La Chouette, exclaimed, 
 ' I have some vitriol here, and I'll rub La Goualeuse's 
 face, to disfigure her with it ! ' " 
 
 " Oh, horrible ! Unhappy girl ! And who has saved 
 you from this danger ? " 
 
 292 
 
THE PROTECTRESS. 
 
 "The woman's confederate, a blind man called the 
 Schoolmaster." 
 
 " And he defended you ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, this and another time also. On this 
 occasion there was a struggle between him and La 
 Chouette : exerting his strength, the Schoolmaster com- 
 pelled her to throw out of window the bottle which held 
 the vitriol. This was the first service he rendered me, 
 after having, however, aided in carrying me off. The 
 night was excessively dark. At the end of an hour and 
 a half the coach stopped, as I think, on the highroad 
 which traverses the Plain St. Denis, and here was a 
 man on horseback, evidently awaiting us. ' What ! ' 
 said he, ' have you got her at last ? ' ' Yes, we've got 
 her,' answered La Chouette, who was furious because 
 she had been hindered from disfiguring me. ' If you 
 wish to get rid of the little baggage at once, it will 
 be a good plan to stretch her on the ground, and let 
 the coach wheels pass over her skull. It will appear as 
 if she had been accidentally killed.' " 
 
 " You make me shudder." 
 
 "Alas, madame, La Chouette was quite capable of 
 doing what she said ! Fortunately, the man on horse- 
 back replied that he would not have any harm done to 
 me, and all he wanted 7vas to have me confined some- 
 where for two months in a place whence I could neither 
 go out nor be allowed to write to any one. Then La 
 Chouette proposed to take me to a man's called Bras 
 Rouge, who keeps a tavern in the Champs Elyse'es. In 
 this tavern there are several subterranean chambers, and 
 one of these, La Chouette said, would serve me for a 
 prison. The man on horseback agreed to this proposi- 
 tion; and he promised me that, after remaining two 
 months at Bras Rouge's, I should be properly taken care 
 of, and not be sorry for having quitted the farm at 
 Bouqueval." 
 
 " What a strange mystery ! " 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " This man gave money to La Chouette, and promised 
 her more when she should bring me from Bras Rouge's, 
 and then galloped away. Our hackney-coach continued 
 its way on to Paris ; and a short time before we reached 
 the barrier the Schoolmaster said to La Chouette, * You 
 want to shut Goualeuse up in one of Bras Rouge's cel- 
 lars, when you know very well that, being so close to 
 the river's side, these cellars are always under water in 
 the winter ! Do you wish to drown her ? ' ' Yes,' replied 
 La Chouette." 
 
 " Poor girl ! What had you ever done to this horrid 
 woman ? " 
 
 " Nothing, madame ; and from my very infancy she 
 had always been so full of hatred towards me. The 
 Schoolmaster replied, ' I won't have Goualeuse drowned ! 
 She sha'n't go to Bras Rouge's ! ' La Chouette was as 
 astonished as I was, madame, to hear this man defend 
 me thus, and she flew into a violent rage, and swore she 
 would take me to Bras Rouge's in spite of the School- 
 master. ' I defy you ! ' said he, ' for I have got Goua- 
 leuse by the arm, and I will not let go my hold of her ; 
 and, if you come near her, I'll strangle you ! ' ' What 
 do you mean, then, to do with her,' cried La Chouette, 
 ' since she must be concealed somewhere for two months, 
 so that no one may know where she is ? ' ' There's a 
 way,' said the Schoolmaster. ' We are going by the 
 Champs Elyse'es ; we will stop the coach a little way off 
 the guard-house, and you shall go to Bras Rouge's tav- 
 ern. It is midnight, and you will be sure to find him ; 
 bring him here, and he shall lead La Goualeuse to the 
 guard-house, declaring that she is a jille de la Cite, whom 
 he has found loitering about his house. As girls are 
 sentenced to three months' imprisonment if found in the 
 Champs Elyse'es, and as La Goualeuse is still on the 
 police books, she will be apprehended and sent to St. 
 Lazare, where she will be better taken care of and con- 
 cealed than in Bras Rouge's cellar.' ' But,' answered 
 29i 
 
THE PROTECTRESS. 
 
 La Chouette, 4 Goualeuse will not allow herself to be 
 arrested even at the corps-de-garde. She will declare 
 that we have carried her off, and give information 
 against us ; and, supposing even that she goes to prison, 
 she will write to her protectors, and all will be dis- 
 covered.' ' No, she will go to prison willingly,' answered 
 the Schoolmaster ; * and she shall take an oath not to 
 give any information against any person as long as she 
 is in St. Lazare, nor afterwards, either. This is a debt 
 she owes me, for I prevented you from disfiguring her, 
 La Chouette, and saved her from being drowned at Bras 
 Rouge's; but if, after having sworn not to speak, she 
 dares to do so, we will attack the farm at Bouqueval 
 with fire and blood ! ' Then, addressing me, the School- 
 master added, ' Decide, then : take the oath I demand of 
 you, and you shall get off for three months in prison ; 
 if not, I abandon you to La Chouette, who will take 
 you to Bras Rouge's, where you will be drowned, 
 and we will set Bouqueval farm on fire. So, come, 
 decide. I know, if you take the oath, you will keep 
 it.'" 
 
 " And you did swear ? " 
 
 " Alas, yes, madame ! I was so fearful they would do 
 my protectors at the farm an injury, and then I so much 
 dreaded being drowned by La Chouette in a cellar, it 
 seemed so frightful to me ; another death would have 
 seemed to me less horrid, and, perhaps, I should not 
 have tried to escape it." 
 
 " What a dreadful idea at your age ! " said Madame 
 d'Harville, looking at La Goualeuse with surprise. 
 " When you have left this place, and have been restored 
 to your benefactors, shall you not be very happy ? Has 
 not your repentance effaced the past ?" 
 
 " Can the past ever be effaced ? Can the past ever be 
 forgotten ? Can repentance kill memory, madame ? " 
 exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so despairing that 
 Clemence shuddered. 
 
 295 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " But all faults are retrieved, unhappy girl ! " 
 
 " And the remembrance of stain, madame, does not 
 that become more and more terrible in proportion as the 
 soul becomes purer, in proportion as the mind becomes 
 more elevated ? Alas, the higher we ascend, the deeper 
 appears the abyss which we have quitted ! " 
 
 " Then you renounce all hope of restoration — of 
 pardon ? " 
 
 " On the part of others — no, madame, your kindness 
 proves to me that remorse will find indulgence." 
 
 " But you will be pitiless towards yourself ?" 
 
 " Others, madame, may not know, pardon, or forget 
 what I have been, but I shall never forget it ! " 
 
 " And do you sometimes desire to die ? " 
 
 " Sometimes ! " said Goualeuse, smiling bitterly. Then, 
 after a moment's silence, she added, " Sometimes, — yes, 
 madame." 
 
 " Still you were afraid of being disfigured by that 
 horrid woman ; and so you wish to preserve your beauty, 
 my poor little girl. That proves that life has still some 
 attraction for you ; so courage ! Courage ! " 
 
 " It is, perhaps, weakness to think of it, but if I were 
 handsome, as you say, madame, I should like to die 
 handsome, pronouncing the name of my benefactor." 
 
 Madame d'Harville's eyes filled with tears. Fleur-de- 
 Marie had said these last words with so much simplicity ; 
 her angelic, pale, depressed features, her melancholy 
 smile, were all so much in accord with her words, that it 
 was impossible to doubt the reality of her sad desire. 
 Madame d'Harville was endued with too much delicacy 
 not to feel how miserable, how fatal, was this thought of 
 La Goualeuse : " I shall never forget what I have been ! " 
 — the fixed, permanent, incessant idea which controlled 
 and tortured Fleur-de-Marie's life. Cle'mence, ashamed 
 at having for an instant misconstrued the ever disinter- 
 ested generosity of the prince, regretted also that she 
 had for a moment allowed herself to be actuated by any 
 296 
 
THE PROTECTRESS. 
 
 feeling of absurd jealousy against La Goualeuse, who, 
 with such pure excitement, expressed her gratitude 
 towards her protector. It was strange that the admira- 
 tion which this poor prisoner felt so deeply towards 
 Rodolph perhaps increased the profound love which 
 C16mence must for ever conceal from him. She said, to 
 drive away these thoughts : 
 
 " I trust that, for the future, you will be less severe 
 towards yourself. But let us talk of this oath, for now 
 I can explain your silence. You will not denounce these 
 wretches ?" 
 
 " Although the Schoolmaster shared in my carrying 
 off, yet he twice defended me, and I would not be 
 ungrateful towards him." 
 
 " Then you lent yourself to the plans of these 
 monsters ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, I was so frightened ! The Chouette 
 went to seek for Bras Rouge, who conducted me to the 
 guard-house, saying he had found me roving near his 
 cabaret. I did not deny it, and so they took me into 
 custody and brought me here." 
 
 " But your friends at the farm must be in the utmost 
 anxiety about you ! " 
 
 " Alas, madame, in my great alarm, I did not reflect 
 that my oath would prevent me from assuring them of 
 my safety. Now that makes me wretched ! But I think 
 (and hope you think so, too) that, without breaking my 
 word, I may beg of you to write to Madame Georges at 
 the farm of Bouqueval, and assure her that she need have 
 no fears for me, without informing her where I am; for 
 I have promised to be silent." 
 
 " My child, these precautions will be useless if, at my 
 recommendation, you are pardoned. To-morrow you 
 will return to the farm without having betrayed your 
 oath by that ; and you may consult your friends here- 
 after to know how far you are bound by a promise which 
 was extorted from you by a threat." 
 
 297 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " You believe then, madame, that, thanks to your 
 kindness, I may hope to leave here very soon ? " 
 
 " You deserve my interest so much that I am sure I 
 shall succeed, and I have no doubt but that the day after 
 to-morrow you may rely on going in person to your 
 benefactors." 
 
 " So soon ! Madame, how have I deserved so much 
 goodness on your part? How can I ever repay your 
 kindness ? " 
 
 " By continuing to behave as you have done. I only 
 regret that I cannot do anything towards your future 
 existence ; that is a pleasure which your friends have 
 reserved for themselves." 
 
 At this moment Madame Armand entered abruptly, 
 and with a troubled air. 
 
 " Madame la Marquise," she said, addressing Clemence 
 with hesitation, " I am deeply pained with a message I 
 have to convey to you." 
 
 " What do you mean, madame ? " 
 
 " The Duke de Lucenay is below, just come from your 
 house, madame." 
 
 " La, how you frighten me ! What's the matter ? " 
 
 " I do not know, madame ; but M. de Lucenay 
 has, he told me, some very distressing information 
 to communicate to you. He learnt from the duchess, 
 his lady, that you were here, and has come in great 
 haste." 
 
 " Distressing information ! " said Madame d'Harville 
 to 'herself; then she suddenly shrieked out, in agonised 
 accents, " My daughter, my daughter, my daughter, 
 perhaps ! Oh, speak, madame ! " 
 
 " I do not know, your ladyship." 
 
 "Oh, for mercy's sake — for mercy's sake, take me 
 to M. de Lucenay ! " cried Madame d'Harville, rush- 
 ing out with a bewildered air, followed by Madame 
 Armand. 
 
 " Poor mother ! She fears for her child ! " said La 
 
 298 
 
THE PKOTECTRESS. 
 
 Goualeuse, following Cle'inence with her eyes. " Oh, 
 no, it is impossible ! At the very moment when 
 she was so benevolent and kind to me such a blow 
 could not strike her! No, no; once again I say it 
 is impossible ! " 
 
 299 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 We shall now conduct the reader to the house in the 
 Rue du Temple, about three o'clock on the day in which 
 M. d'Harville terminated his existence. At the time 
 mentioned, the conscientious and indefatigable M. Pipelet 
 sat alone in his lodge, occupied in repairing the boot 
 which had, more than once, fallen from his hand during 
 Cabrion's last attack ; the physiognomy of the delicate- 
 minded porter was dejected, and exhibited a more than 
 usually melancholy air. 
 
 All at once a loud and shrill voice was heard calling 
 from the upper part of the house, exclaiming, in tones 
 which reechoed down the staircase : 
 
 " M. Pipelet ! M. Pipelet ! Make haste ! Come up as 
 fast as you can ! Madame Pipelet is taken very ill ! " 
 
 " God bless me ! " cried Alfred, rising from his stool. 
 " Anastasie ill ! " But, quickly resuming his seat, he 
 said to himself, " What a simpleton I must be to believe 
 such a thing ! My wife has been gone out more than an 
 hour ! Ah, but may she not have returned without my 
 observing it? Certainly, such a mode of proceeding 
 would be somewhat irregular, but I am not the less 
 bound to admit that it is possible." 
 
 " M. Pipelet ! " called out the up-stairs voice again. 
 " Pray come as quickly as you can ; I am holding your 
 wife in my arms ! " 
 
 " Holloa ! " said Pipelet, springing up abruptly. 
 " Somebody got my wife in his arms ! " 
 
 300 
 
THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " I really cannot manage to unlace Madame Pipelet's 
 stays by myself ! " screamed out the voice, in tones 
 louder than before. 
 
 These words perfectly electrified Alfred, and the 
 blush of offended modesty empurpled his melancholy 
 features. 
 
 " Sir-r-r ! " cried he in a stentorian voice, as he 
 rushed frantically from his lodge. " Sir-r-r ! I adjure 
 you, in the name of Honour, to leave my wife and 
 her stays alone ! I come ! I come ! " 
 
 And so saying, Alfred dashed into the dark labyrinth 
 called a staircase, forgetting, in his excitement, to close 
 the door of the lodge after him. 
 
 Scarcely had he quitted it than an individual entered 
 quickly, snatched from the table the cobbler's hammer, 
 sprung on the bed, and, by means of four small tacks, 
 previously inserted into each corner of a thick cardboard 
 he carried with him, nailed the cardboard to the back of 
 the dark recess in which stood Pipelet's bed ; then dis- 
 appeared as quickly as he had come. So expeditiously 
 was the operation performed, that the porter, having 
 almost immediately recollected his omission respecting 
 the closing the lodge door, hastily descended, and both 
 shut and locked it ; then putting the key in his pocket, 
 returned with all speed to succour his wife above-stairs, 
 without the slightest suspicion crossing his mind that 
 any foot had trod there since his own. Having taken 
 this precautionary measure, Alfred again darted off to 
 the assistance of Anastasie, exclaiming, with all the 
 power of his lungs : 
 
 " Sir-r-r ! I come ! Behold me ! I place my wife 
 beneath the safeguard of your delicacy ! " 
 
 But a fresh surprise awaited the worthy porter, and 
 had well-nigh caused him to fall from the height he had 
 ascended to the sill of his own lodge, — the voice of 
 her he expected to find fainting in the arms of some 
 unknown individual was now heard, not from the upper 
 801 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 part of the house, but at the entrance ! In well-known 
 accents, but sharper and shriller than usual, he heard 
 Anastasie exclaim: 
 
 " Why, Alfred ! What do you mean by leaving the 
 lodge ? Where have you got to, you old gossip ? " 
 
 At this appeal, M. Pipelet managed to descend as far 
 as the first landing, where he remained petrified with 
 astonishment, gazing downwards with fixed stare, open 
 mouth, and one foot drawn up in the most ludicrous 
 manner. 
 
 " Alfred, I say ! " screamed Madame Pipelet, a second 
 time, in a voice loud enough to awake the dead. 
 
 " Anastasie down there ? Then it is impossible she 
 can be ill up-stairs," said Pipelet, mentally, faithful to his 
 system of close and logical argumentation. " Whose, 
 then, was the manly voice that spoke of her illness, and 
 of his undoing her stays ? An impostor, doubtless, to 
 whom my distraction and alarm have been a matter 
 of amusement ; but what motive could he have had in 
 thus working upon my susceptible feelings ? Something 
 very extraordinary is going on here. However, as soon 
 as I have been to answer my wife's inquiry, I will return 
 to clear up this mystery, and to discover the person 
 whose voice summoned me in such haste." 
 
 In considerable agitation did M. Pipelet descend, and 
 find himself in his wife's presence. 
 
 " It is you, then, this time ? " inquired he. 
 
 " Of course it is me ; who did you expect it was ? " 
 
 " 'Tis you, indeed ! My senses do not deceive me ! " 
 
 " Alfred, what is the matter with you ? Why do you 
 stand there, staring and opening your mouth, as if 
 you meant to swallow me?" 
 
 " Because your presence reveals to me that strange 
 things are passing here, so strange that — " 
 
 " Oh, stuff and nonsense ! Give me the key of the 
 lodge ! What made you leave it when I was out ? 
 I have just come from the office where the diligence 
 302 
 
THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 starts from for Normandy. I went there in a coach to 
 take M. Bradamanti's trunk, as he did not wish that 
 little rascal, Tortillard, to know anything about it, 
 since, it seems, he had rather no one should be 
 acquainted with the fact of his leaving Paris this 
 evening; and, as for his mistrusting the boy, why, I 
 don't wonder at it." 
 
 Saying these words, Madame Pipelet took the key 
 from her husband's hand, opened the lodge, and entered 
 it before her partner ; but scarcely were they both safe 
 within its dark recesses, than an individual, lightly 
 descending the staircase, passed swiftly and unobserved 
 before the lodge. This personage was Cabrion, who, 
 having managed to steal up-stairs, had so powerfully 
 worked upon the porter's tencter susceptibilities. M. 
 Pipelet threw himself into his chair, saying to his 
 wife, in a voice of deep emotion : 
 
 " Anastasie, I do not feel myself comfortable to-day ; 
 strange and mysterious things are going on in this 
 house." 
 
 " What ! Are you going to break out again ? What 
 an old fool you are ! Why, strange things happen in 
 every house. What has come over you ? Come, let's 
 look at you ! Well, I declare, you are all of a sweat, 
 just as if you had been dragged out of the water ! What 
 have you been doing since I left you ? Overexerting 
 yourself, I am sure, and I forbid you ever doing so. 
 La! Look how the great drops pour from him, poor 
 old chick!" 
 
 " And well they may ! " exclaimed M. Pipelet, passing 
 his hand over his face, bathed in its own dew ; " well 
 may I sweat, — ay, even blood and water, — for there 
 are facts connected with this house past belief or com- 
 prehension. First, you summon me up-stairs, and, at 
 the same moment, I find you waiting below ! Oh, it is 
 too, too much for my poor brain ! " 
 
 " Deuce take me, if I can comprehend one word of all 
 303 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 you are saying ! Lord, help us ! It is to be hoped your 
 poor old brain is not cracked. I tell you what, if you 
 go on so, I shall just set you down for cracked ; and all 
 through that scamp of a Cabrion, — the devil take him ! 
 Ever since that last trick he played the other day, I 
 declare you have not been yourself, so flustered and 
 bewildered ! Do you mean to live in fear and dread of 
 that abominable painter all your days ? " 
 
 But scarcely had Anastasie uttered these words than 
 a fearful thing occurred. Alfred continued sitting, with 
 his face turned towards the bed, while the lodge was 
 dimly illumined by the faint glimmer of a winter's 
 afternoon and a lamp that stood burning on the table, 
 near Alfred's work. By these doubtful lights, M. Pipe- 
 let, just as his wife pronounced the name of Cabrion, 
 imagined he saw, in the shadow of the recess, the half 
 stolid, half chuckling features of his enemy. Alas ! Too 
 truly, there he was. His steeple-crowned hat, his flow- 
 ing locks, thin countenance, sardonic smile, pointed 
 beard, and look of fiendish malice, all were there, past 
 all mistake. For a moment, M. Pipelet believed himself 
 under the influence of a dream, and passed his hand 
 across his eyes, in hopes that the illusion might dis- 
 perse ; but no ; there was nothing illusive in what his 
 eyes glared so fearfully upon, — nothing could be more 
 real or positive. Yet, horror of horrors ! This object 
 seemed merely to possess a head, which, without allow- 
 ing any part of the body to appear, grinned a satanic 
 smile from the dark draperies of the recess in which 
 stood the bed. At this horrific vision M. Pipelet fell 
 back, without uttering a word. With uplifted arm he 
 pointed towards the source of his terrors, but with so 
 strong a manifestation of intense alarm that Madame 
 Pipelet, spite of her usual courage and self-possession, 
 could not help feeling a dread of — she knew not what. 
 She staggered back a few steps, then, seizing Alfred by 
 the hand, exclaimed : 
 
 304 
 
THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 « Cabrion ! " 
 
 "I know it!" groaned forth M. Pipelet, in a deep, 
 hollow voice, shutting his eyes to exclude the frightful 
 spectre. 
 
 Nothing could have borne more flattering tribute to 
 the talent which had so admirably delineated the fea- 
 tures of Cabrion than the overwhelming terror his paste- 
 board likeness occasioned to the worthy couple in 
 the lodge ; but the first surprise of Anastasie over, she, 
 bold as a lioness, rushed to the bed, sprang upon it, 
 and, though not without some trepidation, tore the 
 painting from the wall, against which it had been 
 nailed ; then, crowning her valiant deed by her accus- 
 tomed favourite expression, the amazon triumphantly 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Get along with you ! " 
 
 Alfred, on the contrary, remained with closed eyes 
 and extended hands, fixed and motionless, according to 
 his wont during the most critical passages of his life ; 
 the continued oscillation of his bell-crowned hat alone 
 revealing, from time to time, the violence of his internal 
 emotions. 
 
 " Open your eyes, my old duck ! " cried Madame Pipe- 
 let, triumphantly. " It is nothing to be afraid of, only 
 a picture, a portrait of that scoundrel Cabrion. Look 
 here, lovey, — look at 'Stasie stamping on it ! " continued 
 the indignant wife, throwing the painting on the ground, 
 and jumping upon it with all her force ; then added, 
 " Ah, I wish I had the villain here, to serve the same ! 
 I'll warrant I'd mark him for life ! " Then, picking up 
 the portrait, she said, " Well, I've served you out, any- 
 how ! Just look, old dear, if I haven't ! " 
 
 But poor Alfred, with a disconsolate shake of the 
 head, made signs that he had rather not, and further 
 intimating, by expressive gestures, his earnest desire 
 that his wife would remove the detested likeness of his 
 bitter foe far from his view. 
 
 305 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 " Well," cried the porteress, examining the portrait by 
 the aid of the lamp, " was there ever such imperance ? 
 Why, Alfred, the vile feller has presumed to write in red 
 letters at the bottom of the picture, ' To my dear friend 
 Pipelet ; presented by his friend for life, Cabrion ! ' " 
 
 " For life ! " groaned Pipelet ; then, heaving a deep 
 sigh, he added, " Yes, 'tis my life he aims at ; and he 
 will finish by taking it. I shall exist, from this day for- 
 ward, in a state of continual alarm, believing that the 
 fiend who torments me is ever near, — hid, perhaps, in 
 the floor, the wall, the ceiling, and thence watches me 
 throughout the day ; or even at night, when sleeping in 
 the chaste arms of my wife, his eye is still on me. And 
 who can tell but he is at this very instant behind me, 
 gazing with that well-known sardonic grin ; or crouched 
 down in some corner of the room, like a deadly reptile ! 
 Say, you monster, are you there^ Are you there, I 
 demand ? " cried M. Pipelet, accompanying this furious 
 adjuration by a sort of circular motion of the head, as 
 though wishing to interrogate every nook and corner of 
 the lodge. 
 
 " Yes, dear friend, here I am!" answered the well- 
 known voice of Cabrion, in blandly affectionate tones. 
 
 By a simple trick in ventriloquism, these words were 
 made to appear as though issuing from the recess in 
 which stood the bed ; but the malicious joker was 
 in reality close to the door of the lodge, enjoying every 
 particular look and word that passed within. However, 
 after uttering the last few words, he prudently disap- 
 peared with all haste, though not (as will be seen) 
 without leaving his victim a fresh subject for rage, 
 astonishment, and meditation. 
 
 Madame Pipelet, still skeptical and courageous, care- 
 fully examined under the bed, as well as in every corner 
 of the lodge, but, discovering no trace of the enemy, 
 actually went out into the alley to prosecute her re- 
 searches ; while M. Pipelet, completely crushed by this 
 306 
 
THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 last blow, fell back into his chair in a state of boundless 
 despair. 
 
 " Never mind, Alfred ! " said Anastasie, who always 
 exhibited great determination upon all critical occa- 
 sions. " Bless you ! The villain had managed to hide 
 himself somewhere near the door, and, while we were 
 looking in one direction, he managed to slip out in 
 another. But just wait a bit : I shall catch him one of 
 these days, and then see if I don't make him taste my 
 broomstick ! Let him take care, that's all ! " 
 
 The door opened as she concluded this animating 
 address, and Madame Seraphin, the housekeeper of the 
 notary, Jacques Ferrand, entered the lodge. 
 
 " Good day, Madame Se'raphin," said Madame Pipelet, 
 who, in her extreme anxiety to conceal her domestic 
 troubles from a stranger, assumed all at once a most 
 gracious and winning manner ; " what can I have the 
 pleasure of doing for you ? " 
 
 "Why, first of all, tell me what is the meaning of 
 your new sign ? " 
 
 " Our new sign ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the small printed board." 
 
 « Printed board ! " 
 
 " To be sure ; that black board with red letters, 
 hung over the door leading from the alley up to your 
 lodge." 
 
 " What, out in the street ? " 
 
 " In the street, I tell you, precisely over your door." 
 " I wish I may die if I understand a single word of 
 what you are talking about ! Do you, old dear ? " 
 Alfred spoke not. 
 
 " Certainly," continued Madame Seraphin, " since it 
 relates to M. Pipelet, he can best explain to me what 
 this board means." 
 
 Alfred uttered a sort of heavy, inarticulate groan, 
 while his bell-crowned hat recommenced its convul- 
 sive agitations. This pantomimic action was meant 
 307 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 to express that Alfred was in no condition to explain 
 anything to anybody, having his mind already suffi- 
 ciently burdened with an infinity of problematical 
 questions he sought in vain to solve. 
 
 " Don't take any notice of poor dear Alfred, Madame 
 SeVaphin ; he has got the cramp in his stomach, and 
 that makes him so very — But what is this board of 
 which you were speaking ? Very likely it has just been 
 put up by the man who keeps the wine-shop at the 
 corner." 
 
 " I tell you again it is no such thing. It is a small 
 painted board, hung up over your door, — I mean the 
 door leading from the alley to the street." 
 
 " Ah, you are laughing at us ! " 
 
 " Indeed I am not. I saw it just now, as I came in ; 
 on it is written, in large letters, ' Pipelet and Cabrion, 
 dealers in Friendship and similar Articles. Inquire of 
 the Porter.' " 
 
 " Gracious goodness ! Do you hear that, Alfred ? Do 
 you hear what is written up over our door ?" 
 
 Alfred gazed at Madame S^raphin with a bewildered 
 look, but he neither understood nor sought to understand 
 her meaning. 
 
 "Do you mean to say," continued Madame Pipelet, 
 confounded by this fresh audacity, " that you positively 
 saw a little board out in the street with all that about 
 Alfred and Cabrion, and dealing. in friendship?" 
 
 " I tell you I have just seen it, and read with my own 
 eyes what I described, to you. ' Well,' said I to myself, 
 4 this is droll enough ! M. Pipelet is a shoemaker by 
 trade, but here he writes up publicly that he is a dealer 
 in friendship along with a M. Cabrion ! What can all this 
 mean ? There is something meant more than meets the 
 eye ! ' Still, as the board further directed all persons 
 desirous of knowing more to apply to the porter, 4 Oh,' 
 thinks I, ' Madame Pipelet can explain all this to me ! ' 
 But, look, look ! " cried Madame Seraphin, suddenly 
 308 
 
THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 breaking off in her remarks. " Your husband is taken ill ! 
 Mind what you are about, or he will fall backwards ! " 
 
 Madame Pipelet flew to her afflicted partner, and was 
 just in time to receive him, half fainting, in her arms. 
 The last blow had been too overwhelming, — the man 
 in the bell-crowned hat had but just strength left to 
 murmur forth, " The scoundrel has, then, publicly 
 placarded me ! " 
 
 " I told you, Madame Se'raphin, that poor Alfred was 
 suffering dreadful with the cramp in his stomach, besides 
 being worried to death by a crack-brained vagabond, who 
 is at him night and day : he'll be the death of my poor 
 old duck at last. Never mind, darling, I've got a nice 
 little drop of aniseed to give you ; so drink it, and see if 
 you can't shake your old feathers and be yourself again ! " 
 
 Thanks to the timely application of Madame Pipelet's 
 infallible remedy, Alfred gradually recovered his senses ; 
 but, alas, scarcely was he restored to full consciousness 
 ere he was subjected to another and equally cruel trial 
 of his feelings ! 
 
 An individual of middle age, respectably dressed, and 
 possessing a countenance so simple, or rather so silly, as 
 to render it impossible to suspect him of any malice pre- 
 pense or intended irony, opened the upper and glazed 
 part of the lodge door, saying, with the most genuine 
 air of mystification: 
 
 "I have just read on a small board placed over the 
 door, at the entrance to the alley, the following words : 
 ' Pipelet and Cabrion, dealers in Friendship and similar 
 Articles. Inquire of the Porter.' Will you oblige me 
 by explaining the meaning of those words, if you are, as 
 I presume you to be, the porter in question ? " 
 
 " The meaning ! " exclaimed M. Pipelet, in a voice 
 of thunder, and giving vent at length to his so long 
 restrained indignation ; " the meaning is simply, 
 sir-r-r, that M. Cabrion is an infamous scoundrel, — an 
 impostor ! " 
 
 309 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 The simple-looking interrogator drew back, in dread 
 of the consequences that might follow this sudden and 
 furious burst of wrath, while, wrought up to a state of 
 fury, Alfred leaned over the half door of the lodge, his 
 glaring eyeballs and clenched hands indicating the inten- 
 sity of his feelings ; while the figures of Madame Sera- 
 phin and Anastasie were dimly revealed amid the murky 
 shades of the small room. 
 
 " Let me tell you, sir-r-r ! " cried M. Pipelet, address- 
 ing the placid-looking man at the door, " that I have no 
 dealings with that beggar Cabrion, and certainly none 
 in the way of friendship ! " 
 
 " No, that I'm sure you have not ! " screamed out 
 Madame Pipelet, in confirmation of her husband's 
 words ; adding, as she displayed her forbidding coun- 
 tenance over her husband's shoulder, " and I wonder 
 very much where that old dunderhead has come from 
 to ask such a stupid question ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madame," said the guileless-look- 
 ing individual thus addressed, again withdrawing another 
 step to escape the concentrated anger of the enraged pair ; 
 "placards are made to be read, — you put out a board, 
 which I read, — now allow me to say that I am not to 
 blame for perusing what you set up purposely to attract 
 attention, but that you are decidedly wrong to insult 
 me so grossly when I civilly come to you, as your own 
 board desires, for information." 
 
 " Oh, you old fool ! Get along with you ! " exclaimed 
 Anastasie, with a most hideous distortion of visage. 
 
 " You are a rude, unmannerly woman ! " 
 
 " Alfred, deary, just fetch me your boot-jack : I'll give 
 that old chatterer such a mark that his own mother shall 
 not know her darling again ! " 
 
 " Really, madame, I can't say I understand receiving 
 such rough treatment when I come, by your own direc- 
 tions, to make inquiries respecting what you or your 
 husband have publicly notified in the streets." 
 
 310 
 
THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " But, sir-r-r — ! " cried the unhappy porter. 
 
 " Sir ! " interrupted the hitherto placid inquirer, now 
 worked up into extreme rage, " Sir ! You may carry 
 your friendship with your M. Cabrion as far as you 
 please, but, give me leave to tell you, you have no busi- 
 ness to parade yourself or your friendships in the face 
 of everybody in the streets. And I think it right, sir, to 
 let you know a bit of my mind ; which is, that you are 
 a boasting braggart, and that I shall go at once and lay 
 a formal complaint against you at the police office." 
 Saying which, the individual departed in an apparently 
 towering passion. 
 
 " Anastasie," moaned out poor Pipelet, in a dolorous 
 voice, " I shall never survive all this ! I feel but too 
 surely that I am struck with death, — I have not a hope 
 of escape ! You hear my name is publicly exposed in 
 the open streets, in company with that scoundrel's ! He 
 has dared to placard the hideous tale of my having 
 entered into a treaty of friendship with him ! And the 
 innocent, unsuspecting public will read the hateful state- 
 ment — remember it — repeat it — spread the detestable 
 report ! Oh, monstrous, enormous, devilish invention ! 
 None but a fiend could have had such a thought. But 
 there must be an end to this. The measure is full, — ay, 
 to overflowing; and things have come to such a pass 
 that either this accursed painter or myself must perish 
 in the deadly struggle ! " And, wrought up to such a 
 state of vigorous resolution as to completely conquer his 
 usual apathy, M. Pipelet seized the portrait of Cabrion 
 and rushed towards the door. 
 
 " Where are you going, Alfred ? " screamed the wife. 
 
 " To the commissary of police, and, at the same time, 
 to tear down that vile board ! Then, bearing the board 
 in one hand and the portrait in the other, I will cry 
 aloud to the commissary, ' Defend, avenge an injured 
 man ! Deliver me from Cabrion ! ' " 
 
 " So do, old darling ! There, hold up your head and 
 
 311 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 pluck up courage ! And I tell you what, if the board is 
 too high for you to reach, ask the man at the wine-shop 
 to lend you his small ladder. That blackguard of a 
 Cabrion ! I only wish I had him in my power, I'd fry 
 him for half an hour in my largest stew-pan ! Why, 
 scores of people have been publicly executed who did not 
 deserve death a quarter as much as he does ! The vil- 
 lain ! I should like to see him just ready to have the 
 guillotine dropped upon his head. Wouldn't I give him 
 my blessing in a friendly way ? A rascal ! " 
 
 Alfred, amid all his woes, yet displayed a rare mag- 
 nanimity, contrasting strongly with the vindictive spirit 
 of his partner. 
 
 " No, no," said he ; " spite of the wrongs he has done 
 me, I would not, even if his life were in my power, 
 ' demand his head ! "' 
 
 " But I would ! I would ! I would ! " vociferated the 
 ferocious Anastasie. " If he had fifty heads, I would 
 demand every one of them ! I would not leave him one ! 
 But go along ; make haste, Alfred, and set the commis- 
 sary of police to work upon him." 
 
 " No," cried Alfred, " I desire not his blood ; but I 
 have a right to demand the perpetual imprisonment of 
 this malicious being. My repose requires it, — my health 
 peremptorily calls for it. The laws of my country must 
 either grant me this reparation for all I have suffered, 01 
 I quit France. Yes, beautiful and beloved France ! I turn 
 my back on you for ever ! And that is all an ungrate- 
 ful nation would gain by neglecting to heal the wounds 
 of my tortured mind ; " and, bending beneath the weight 
 of his grief, Alfred majestically quitted the lodge, like 
 one of the ancient victims of all-conquering Fatality. 
 
 312 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CECILY. 
 
 Before we introduce the reader to the conversation 
 between Madame S^raphin and Madame Pipelet, we must 
 premise that Anastasie, without entertaining the very 
 slightest suspicion of the virtue and piety of the notary, 
 felt the greatest indignation at the severity manifested 
 by him in the case both of Louise Morel and M. Ger- 
 main ; and, as a natural consequence, the angry porteress 
 included Madame Sdraphin in the same censure ; but 
 still, like a skilful politician, Madame Pipelet, for rea- 
 sons we shall hereafter explain, concealed her dislike to 
 the femme-de-charge under the appearance of the greatest 
 cordiality. After having explicitly declared her extreme 
 disapprobation of the conduct pursued by Cabrion, Ma- 
 dame SeVaphin went on to say : 
 
 "By the way, what has become of M. Bradamanti 
 Polidori ? I wrote to him yesterday evening, but got no 
 reply ; this morning I came to see him, but he was not 
 to be found. I trust I shall be more fortunate this 
 time." 
 
 Madame Pipelet affected the most lively regret. 
 
 " Really," cried she, " you are doomed to be unlucky ! " 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " M. Bradamanti has not yet returned." 
 " Upon my word, this is enough to tire a saint ! " 
 " So it is, I declare, Madame Se'raphin. I'm sure I'm 
 as sorry about it as if it was my own self." 
 " I had so much to say to him." 
 
 313 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 "It is all for the world as though you were 
 bewitched ! " 
 
 " Why, yes, it is so much the more vexatious, because 
 I have to find all manner of excuses to run down here ; 
 for, if once M. Ferrand were to find out that I came to 
 consult a quack doctor, he who is so devout, so scrupu- 
 lous in all things, we should have a fearful scene ! " 
 
 " La ! He is just like Alfred, who is so silly that 
 really he is afraid of everything and everybody ! " 
 
 " And you do not know, I suppose, when M. Brada- 
 manti will return home ? " 
 
 " No, not precisely ; but I know very well that he 
 expects some one about six or seven o'clock this evening, 
 for he told me to request the person to call again, should 
 he not be at home at the time mentioned. So, if you will 
 call again in the evening, you will be sure to see him." 
 
 But, as Anastasie said these words, she mentally 
 added, " I would not have you too sure of that ; in an 
 hour's time he will be on his road to Normandy ! " 
 
 " Very well, then," said Madame Se'raphin, with an air 
 of considerable chagrin. Then, pausing a brief space, 
 she added, "I had also something to say to you, my 
 dear Madame Pipelet. You know, I suppose, what hap- 
 pened to that girl, Louise Morel, whom everybody 
 thought so good and virtuous — " 
 
 " Oh, pray don't mention her ! " replied Madame Pipe- 
 let, rolling her eyes with affected horror. " It makes one's 
 hair stand on end." 
 
 " I merely alluded to her by way of saying that we 
 are now quite without a servant, and that, if you should 
 chance to hear of a well-disposed, honest, and industrious 
 young person, I should take it as a favour if you would 
 send her to us. Upon my word, girls of good character 
 are so difficult to be met with that one had need search 
 in twenty places at once to find one." 
 
 " Depend upon it, Madame Se'raphin, that, should I 
 hear of anybody likely to suit you, I will let you know ; 
 314 
 
CECILY. 
 
 but, in my opinion, good situations are more rare even 
 than good servants." Then, again relapsing into a fit 
 of abstraction, Anastasie added, though mentally, "A 
 likely story that I should send any young girl to be 
 starved to death in your dungeon of a house ; your mas- 
 ter is too stingy and hard-hearted ! The idea of throwing 
 that poor Louise and M. Germain both in prison ! " 
 
 "I need not tell you," continued Madame Seraphin, 
 " what a still, quiet house ours is ; any young person 
 must be improved by living in a family where there is 
 continually something to be learned ; and that Louise 
 must have been naturally a depraved creature, to turn 
 out badly spite of the good and religious advice bestowed 
 on her by M. Ferrand." 
 
 " No doubt ; but depend upon it that, directly I hear 
 of a young person likely to suit you, I will be sure to let 
 you know." 
 
 " There is just one thing more I should like to men- 
 tion," resumed Madame Seraphin, " and that is, that 
 M. Ferrand would greatly prefer taking a person who 
 had no relatives or friends, because then, you under- 
 stand, having no motive for wishing to go out, she would 
 be less exposed to danger, neither would her mind be so 
 likely to be upset ; so that, if you should happen to 
 meet with an orphan, I think M. Ferrand would prefer 
 taking her, in the first place, because it would be doing 
 a good action ; and, secondly, as, having neither friends 
 nor followers, she could not have any excuse for wishing 
 to go out. I assure you that wretched girl, Louise, gave 
 M. Ferrand a severe lesson, I can tell you, Madame 
 Pipelet, and one that will make him very careful what 
 sort of a servant he engages. Only imagine such a 
 scandalous affair occurring in a house like ours ! Dread- 
 ful ! Well, then, I will call again this evening to see 
 M. Bradamanti, and, at the same time, I can have a 
 little conversation with Mother Burette." 
 
 " Then I will say adieu, Madame Se'raphin, till this 
 315 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 evening, when you will be quite sure of finding 
 M. Bradamanti." 
 
 Madame Seraphin returned the salutation, and quitted 
 the lodge. 
 
 " What a deuce of a worry she is in about Brada- 
 manti ! " said Madame Pipelet, when her visitor had 
 disappeared. " I wonder what she wants with him ? And 
 then, too, M. Bradamanti is just as anxious to avoid see- 
 ing her before he starts for Normandy. I was dread- 
 fully afraid she meant to stick here till he did return 
 home, and that would have been the more awkward, as 
 M. Bradamanti expects the same lady who came last 
 night ; I could not manage to have a squint at her then, 
 but I am determined to-night to stare her regularly out 
 of countenance, like I did the lady who came on the sly 
 to visit my five-farthing commandant. Ah, the screw ! 
 the nipcheese ! He has never ventured to show his face 
 here since. However, by way of teaching him better, I 
 shall make good use of his wood ; yes, yes, my fine 
 gentleman, it shall keep the lodge warm, as well as air 
 your shut-up apartments. A disappointed puppy ! Ha, ha, 
 ha ! Go, and be hanged with your paltry twelve francs 
 a month ! Better learn to pay people honest wages, than 
 go flaunting about in a bright green dressing-gown, like 
 a great lanky grasshopper ! But who the plague can 
 this lady of M. Bradamanti's be, I wonder ? Is she 
 respectable, or t'other ? I should like to know, for I 
 am as curious as a magpie ; but that is not my fault ; 
 I am as God made me, so I can't help it. I know one's 
 disposition is born with us, and so the blame does not 
 lie at my door. Stop a bit ; I've just thought of a capi- 
 tal plan to find out who this lady really is ; and, what's 
 more, I'll engage it turns out successful. Who is that I 
 see coming ? Ah, my king of lodgers ! Your servant, 
 M. Rodolph ! " cried Madame Pipelet, saluting him, after 
 the military fashion, by placing the back of her left hand 
 to her wig. 
 
 316 
 
CECILY. 
 
 It was, in truth, Rodolph, who, as yet ignorant of the 
 death of M. d'Harville, approached gaily, saying : 
 
 " Good day to you, Madame Pipelet ! Can you tell 
 me if Mile, Rigolette is at home? I have something 
 to say to her, if she is." 
 
 " At home, poor girl ! Why, when is she ever out ? 
 When does she lose an hour, or idle instead of working ? " 
 
 " And how gets on Morel's unfortunate wife ? Does 
 she appear more reconciled to her misfortunes ? " 
 
 "Yes, M. Rodolph, I am glad to say she does; and 
 how can she be otherwise, when, thanks to you, or the 
 generous friend whose agent you are, she is supplied 
 with every comfort, both for herself and her children, 
 who are as happy as fishes in the sea ? Why, they want 
 for nothing ; they have good air, good food, good fires, 
 and good beds, with a nurse to take care of them, besides 
 Mile. Rigolette, who, although working like a little busy 
 bee, and without seeming to take part in their proceedings, 
 never loses sight of them, bless you ! And they have 
 had a black doctor to see them, who says he comes from 
 you. ' Well,' says I, , when I looked at him, ' you are a 
 funny one for a doctor, you are ! I suppose, Mr. Nigger, 
 you are physician to a company of char coalmen, because 
 there is no fear of your blacking your hands when you 
 feel their pulse ? ' But la, M. Rodolph, I'm only jok- 
 ing ! For what difference does colour make ? Leastways 
 your blacky seems to be a first-rate clever man, spite 
 of his dingy face, for the first thing he did was to order 
 a composing draught for Morel's wife, which did her a 
 world of good ! " 
 
 " Poor thing ! I doubt not she is still very miserable ? " 
 
 « Why, yes, M. Rodolph, naturally enough she is, for 
 she has plenty of grief before her : her husband in a 
 madhouse, and her daughter in prison ! Ah, that poor 
 Louise ! That is the sorest of her heartaches ; such 
 a blow as that to an honest family, such as theirs has 
 always been, is not to be got over so easily. And that 
 317 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Madame SeVaphin, housekeeper to the notary, who has 
 caused all this misery, has just been here, saying all 
 manner of cruel things about the poor girl. If I had 
 not had my own game to play, she should not have told 
 the tale quite her own way ; but I've got a pill for her 
 to swallow by and by, so I'll let her off easy. Why, only 
 conceive her assurance in coming to ask me if I could 
 not recommend her some young person to supply the 
 place of Louise in the establishment of that old brute of 
 a notary. What a blessed pair the master and his house- 
 keeper are ! Just fancy their preferring an orphan, if 
 they can obtain one, to be their servant ! Don't you see 
 through that, M. Rodolph ? They pretend that their 
 reason for wishing for an orphan is, because, having 
 neither parents nor friends, she would never wish to go 
 out, and would be more free from interruption ; but that 
 is not it, that is all a fudge ; the truth is, they think 
 that, if they could get a poor, friendless girl into their 
 clutches, having nobody to see her righted, they could 
 cheat her out of her wages as much as they liked. Now 
 is not that true, M. Rodolph ? " 
 
 " No doubt," replied the person addressed, with the 
 air of one who is thinking deeply on a subject. 
 
 The information thus afforded him as to Madame 
 Seraphin seeking an orphan girl, to replace Louise as 
 servant in the family of M. Ferrand, appeared to present 
 the almost certain means of accomplishing the just pun- 
 ishment of the notary; and, while Madame Pipelet was. 
 yet speaking, he was arranging every point of the part 
 he had mentally destined for Cecily, whom he purposed 
 making the principal instrument in effecting the retribu- 
 tive justice he meant to inflict on the vile persecutor of 
 Louise Morel. 
 
 " Oh, I was quite sure you would be of my opinion," 
 continued Madame Pipelet, " and that you would agree 
 with me in thinking that their only reason for desiring 
 to engage an orphan girl is, that they may do her out of 
 
 318 
 
CECILY. 
 
 her wages ; and, I can tell you, I would sooner drop down 
 dead than send any poor, friendless creature to such a 
 house ! Certainly, I don't happen to know of any one, 
 but, if I knew of fifty, they should not enter into such 
 a wretched house, if I could hinder them. Don't you 
 think I'm right, M. Rodolph?" 
 
 " Madame Pipelet, will you do me a great favour ? " 
 
 "Do you a favour, M. Rodolph ? Lord love your 
 heart and soul ! Just say what there is I can do for 
 you, and then see whether I will or no. Come, what 
 is it ? Shall I jump into the fire ? or curl my best wig 
 with boiling oil ? or is there anybody I can worry, bite, 
 pinch, or scold for you? Only say the word. I am 
 wholly at your service, heart and body, your most 
 humble slave ; always stipulating that in my service 
 there shall be no offence to Alfred's prior claims 
 on me." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Madame Pipelet, make yourself per- 
 fectly easy! I want you to manage a little affair for 
 me, which is this : I have got to place out a young 
 orphan girl, who is utterly a stranger to Paris ; and 
 I wish very much, with your assistance, to obtain for 
 her the situation vacant in M. Ferrand's establishment." 
 
 " You don't mean it ? La, I never can think you are 
 in earnest ! What ! Send a poor, friendless girl to live 
 with such a miserly wretch as that hard-hearted old 
 notary? No, no, M. Rodolph, that was not what you 
 wanted me to do, I'm sure ! " 
 
 " But, indeed, it is ; why, a place is a place, and, if 
 the young person I mentioned to you should not like 
 it, she is not obliged to stay there ; and then, don't you 
 see, she would at once be able to maintain herself, while 
 I should have no further uneasiness about her ? " 
 
 " Oh, as far as that goes, M. Eodolph, it is your affair, not 
 mine ; and, whatever happens, remember I warned you. 
 If, after all you have heard, you still think the place would 
 suit your young friend, why, of course, you can please 
 319 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 yourself ; and, then, to be sure, as far as regards the 
 notary, there are always two sides to every picture, a for 
 and against to every tale ; he is hard-hearted as a flint- 
 stone, obstinate as a jackass, bigoted as a Jesuit, that's 
 true enough; but then he is of the most scrupulous 
 punctuality in all his affairs ; he gives very low wages, 
 but, then, he pays on the nail ; the living is very bad at 
 his house, still it is the same one day as another. In 
 a word, though it is a house where a servant must work 
 like a horse, yet, at the same time, it is one of those dull, 
 quiet, stupid places, where there is certainly nothing to 
 tempt a girl to get into mischief. Certainly, Louise 
 managed to go wrong, but that was all a chance." 
 
 " Madame Pipelet, I am going to confide a great secret 
 to your honour." 
 
 " Well, then, upon the word and honour of Anastasie 
 Pipelet, whose maiden name was Gulimard, as true as 
 there is a God and heaven, and that Alfred always wears 
 green coats, I will be silent as a stockfish ! " 
 
 " You must not breathe a word to M. Pipelet." 
 
 " That I won't, I swear by the head of that dear old 
 duck himself, if it relates to a proper and correct 
 affair." 
 
 " Surely, Madame Pipelet, you have too good an 
 opinion of me to suppose, for a minute, that I would 
 insult your chaste ears with anything that was not?" 
 
 " Well, then, go it ! Let's know all about it, and, 
 I promise you, Alfred shall never be the wiser, be it 
 what it may. Bless you! he is as easy to cheat as 
 a child of six years old." 
 
 "I rely implicitly on you; therefore listen to my 
 words." 
 
 " I will, my king of lodgers ; and remember that we 
 are now sworn friends for life or for death. So go on 
 with your story." 
 
 " The young person I spoke to you about has, unfortu- 
 nately, committed one serious fault." 
 
 320 
 
CECILY. 
 
 " I was sure of it ! Why, Lord bless you, if I had not 
 married Alfred when I was fifteen years of age, I dare 
 say I should have committed fifties and hundreds of 
 faults ! I ? There, just as you see. I was like a barrel 
 of gunpowder at the very sight or mention of a smart 
 young fellow. Luckily for me, Pipelet extinguished the 
 warmth of my nature in the coolness of his own virtue ; 
 if he had not, I can't say what might have happened, for 
 I did dearly love the gay deceivers ! I merely mention 
 this to say that, if the young person has only done wrong 
 once, then there are great hopes of her." 
 
 " I trust, indeed, she will atone for her past miscon- 
 duct. She was living in service, in Germany, with a 
 relation of mine, and the partner of her crime was the 
 son of this relative. Do you understand ? " 
 
 " Do I ? Don't I ? Go along with you ! I understand 
 as well as though I had committed the fault myself." 
 
 " The angry mistress, upon discovering her servant's 
 guilt, drove her from her house ; but the young man 
 was weak enough to quit his paternal roof, and to bring 
 the unfortunate girl to Paris." 
 
 " Well, la, M. Rodolph ! What else could you expect ? 
 Why, young people will be young people. I'm sure I — " 
 
 "After this act of folly came stern reflection, ren- 
 dered still more severe by the fact of the slender stock 
 of money he possessed being exhausted. In this di- 
 lemma, my young relation applied to me ; and I con- 
 sented to furnish him with the means of returning home, 
 on condition of his leaving behind him the companion 
 of his flight, whom I undertook to place out in some 
 respectable capacity." 
 
 " Well, 1 declare, I could not have done more for a 
 son, if it had pleased Heaven — and Pipelet — that I 
 should have had one ! " 
 
 "I am delighted that you approve of my conduct; 
 still, as the young girl is a stranger, and has no one to 
 give her a recommendation, I fear it will be rather dif- 
 321 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 ficult to get her placed. Now, if you would tell Madame 
 S^raphin that a relation of yours, living in Germany, 
 has sent her to you, with a very excellent character, the 
 notary would, possibly, take her into his service ; and I 
 should be doubly delighted. Cecily (for that is her 
 name), having only once gone astray, would, doubtless, 
 soon regain the right path in a house as severe and 
 saintly as that of the notary's ; and it is for that reason 
 I am desirous of seeing the poor girl enter into the ser- 
 vice of M. Ferrand ; and, of course, if introduced by so 
 respectable a person as yourself, Madame Pipelet, there 
 would be no fear of her obtaining the place." 
 "Oh, M. Rodolph!" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, my good madame, I am sure that one 
 word from so justly esteemed an individual as you — " 
 " Oh, my king of lodgers ! " 
 
 " I repeat that, if you would patronise the young girl 
 so far as to introduce her to Madame S6raphin, I have 
 no fears but that she would be accepted ; whereas, you 
 know, if I were to accompany her to the notary's 
 house — " 
 
 " I see what you mean ; to be sure, it would look just 
 as queer as if I were to introduce a young man. Well, 
 I will do what you wish ; it will be serving old S6raphin 
 out as she deserves. I can tell you I have had a crow 
 to pluck with her a long time, and this seems a famous 
 way of serving her out; besides, it's a good lark, any 
 way. So look upon the thing as done, M. Rodolph. I'll 
 cram the old woman well. I will tell her that a rela- 
 tion of my own, long established in Germany, has just 
 died, as well as her husband, leaving a daughter wholly 
 dependent on me." 
 
 " Capital ! Well, then, without saying anything more 
 to Madame Se'raphin, you shall take Cecily to M. Fer- 
 rand. All you will have to say is, that, not having seen or 
 heard anything of your relation during the last twenty 
 years, you consider it best to let her speak for herself." 
 322 
 
CECILY. 
 
 " Ah, but then, if the girl only jabbers German ? " 
 
 " I assure you she speaks French perfectly well. I 
 will give her proper instructions, therefore you need do 
 nothing more than strongly recommend her to Madame 
 S£raphin, — or, stay, upon second thoughts, perhaps 
 you had better not say any more than you have done 
 on the subject, for fear she should suspect you want to 
 force the girl upon her. You know that, frequently, 
 the very asking a thing produces a refusal." 
 
 " I should think I did, too ! Why, that was the way I 
 got rid of all the flattering lovers that came about me. 
 If they had never asked me a favour, I don't know what 
 I might have done." 
 
 " It is always the case ; therefore say nothing more 
 to Madame S^raphin than just this, that Cecily is an 
 orphan, and a stranger here, very young and very pretty, 
 that she will be a heavy burden to you, and that you are 
 not particularly fond of her, in consequence of having 
 long since quarrelled with her mother, and, conse- 
 quently, not retaining a very great affection for the 
 charge bequeathed to your care." 
 
 " What a deep one you are ! But never mind, there's 
 a pair of us ! I say, M. Rodolph, is it not odd you and 
 I should understand each other so well ? Ah, we two 
 should have suited one another to a hair ! Gracious, 
 M. Rodolph, when I think what might have happened, 
 if we had chanced to have met when I was such a ten- 
 der-hearted, susceptible young creature, and so fond of 
 handsome young men, — don't you fancy we should have 
 seemed like made for one another, — eh, M. Rodolph?" 
 
 "Hush! Suppose M. Pipelet — " 
 
 " I forgot him, poor old duck ! His brain is half 
 turned since this last abominable prank of Cabrion's ; 
 but I'll tell you about that another time. As for your 
 young relation, make yourself quite easy ; I will under- 
 take to play my part so well that old Se*raphin shall 
 come to me, and beg to have her as a servant." 
 
 323 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " And if you succeed, Madame Pipelet, I have one 
 hundred francs quite at your service. I am not rich, 
 but — " 
 
 " Are you making fun of me, M. Rodolph, or do you 
 imagine I am doing what I do for the sake of gain ? I 
 declare to God it's out of nothing but pure friendship ! 
 One hundred francs ! That's handsome, however ! " 
 
 " Why, I consider it but an act of justice, as well as 
 gratitude, to offer you a sum which, if left several 
 months on my hands, the girl must soon have cost me." 
 
 " Ah, well, then, since I can serve you by accepting 
 your hundred francs, of course I have no further objec- 
 tion, M. Rodolph ; but we drew a famous prize in the 
 lottery when you came into the house, and I don't care 
 who hears me say it, for I'd as lief cry it on the house- 
 tops. You are the very prince and king of good lodgers ! 
 Halloa, there is a hackney-coach ! No doubt, the lady 
 M. Bradamanti expects ; I could not manage to see her 
 well when she came yesterday, but I'll have a precious 
 good stare at her this time ; added to which, I've got 
 a capital plan for finding out her name. Come, you 
 shall see me go to work ; it will be a famous lark for 
 us!" 
 
 " No, I thank you, Madame Pipelet ; I have not the 
 slightest curiosity respecting either the name or features 
 of this lady," returned Rodolph, withdrawing to the very 
 end of the lodge. 
 
 "Where do you wish to go, madame?" cried Ana- 
 stasie, rushing towards the female, who was entering. 
 
 " I am going to M. Bradamanti's," returned the person 
 addressed, visibly annoyed at having her progress thus 
 arrested. 
 
 " He is not at home." 
 
 " You are mistaken." 
 
 " Oh, no, I am not ! " said the porteress, skilfully con- 
 triving so to place herself as to command a perfect view 
 of the stranger's features. " M. Bradamanti has gone 
 
 324 
 
CECILY. 
 
 out, positively, absolutely gone out ; that is to say, he is 
 not at home, except to one lady." 
 
 " Tis I, he expects me ; and pray, my good woman, 
 allow me to pass ; you are really troublesome ! " 
 
 " Your name, madame, if you please ? I shall soon 
 see if it is the name of the person M. Bradamanti de- 
 sired me to admit. Should yours not be the right name, 
 you don't go up-stairs, unless you first trample on my 
 body!" 
 
 " Is it possible he could be so imprudent as to tell you 
 my name ? " cried the female, with as much surprise as 
 uneasiness. 
 
 " Certainly he did, madame, or how should I know 
 it?" 
 
 " How very thoughtless ! " murmured the stranger. 
 Then, after a momentary hesitation, she said, impa- 
 tiently, in a low voice, and as if fearful of being over- 
 heard, " My name is D'Orbigny." 
 
 Rodolph started at the word, as it reached his ear, for 
 it was the name of Madame d'Harville's mother-in-law. 
 Advancing, therefore, from the dark corner in which he 
 stood, he managed, by the light of the lamp, to obtain a 
 clear view of the stranger, in whose features he easily 
 traced the portrait so skilfully drawn by Clemence of 
 the author of all her sufferings. 
 
 " Madame d'Orbigny ! " repeated Madame Pipelet, in a 
 loud tone. " Ah, then you may go up-stairs ; that is the 
 name M. Bradamanti gave me." 
 
 Madame d'Harville's mother-in-law waited for no sec- 
 ond bidding, but rapidly passed by the lodge. 
 
 " Well done us ! " shouted the porteress, with a trium- 
 phant air ; " I have caught my fish, done the great lady ! 
 Now, then, I know her name, — she is Madame d'Or- 
 bigny. That wasn't a bad scheme of mine, was it, 
 M. Rodolph ? But what the plague is the matter with 
 you ? How sad and thoughtful you have grown all of a 
 minute ! " 
 
 325 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " This lady has been to see M. Bradamanti before, has 
 she not?" 
 
 " Yes, she was here yesterday evening ; and, directly 
 she was gone, M. Bradamanti went out, most probably, 
 to take his place in the diligence for to-day, because, 
 when he came back, he asked me to take his trunk to 
 the coach office, as he could not trust that little rascal, 
 Tortillard." 
 
 " And do you know where M. Bradamanti is going ? " 
 
 " To Normandy, by way of Alencon." 
 
 Rodolph called to his remembrance that Aubiers, the 
 seat of M. d'Orbigny, was situated in Normandy. There 
 was no longer a doubt that the charlatan was proceeding 
 to the paternal home of Cle*mence, and, as a matter of 
 course, to aid and assist in some scheme of wickedness. 
 
 " The departure of M. Bradamanti will put old Sera- 
 phin out preciously ! " resumed Madame Pipelet. " I 
 can't make out what she wants with him ; but she seems 
 as much bent upon seeing him as he is on avoiding her ; 
 for he charged me particularly not to tell her that he 
 leaves Paris to-night at six o'clock. So, when she calls 
 again, she will find nobody at home ; that will give me 
 an opportunity of talking to her about your young person. 
 Let's see, what is her name ? Cissy — " 
 
 " Cecily ! " 
 
 " Ah, I see ! Just clap two more letters to the word 
 I said, — that'll do. I must tie a knot in the corner of 
 my handkerchief, that I may be able to recollect this 
 bother of a name. Ciss — Cissy — Cecily — I've got 
 it!" 
 
 " Well, now, I think it is time for me to visit Mile. 
 Rigolette," said Rodolph to Madame Pipelet, as he 
 quitted the lodge. 
 
 " And when you come down-stairs, M. Rodolph, I hope 
 you will just speak a word or two to my dear old darling 
 of a husband. He has had a deal of trouble lately, and 
 I know it will be a great relief to him to tell you all 
 326 
 
CECILY. 
 
 about it. That beast of a Cabrion has been at his old 
 tricks again ! " 
 
 " Be assured, Madame Pipelet, I shall always be ready 
 to sympathise with your worthy husband in all his 
 troubles." 
 
 And with these words Rodolph, strangely preoccupied 
 with the recent visit of Madame d'Orbigny to Polidori, 
 slowly pursued his way to the apartment of Mile. 
 Rigolette. 
 
 END OP VOLUME III. 
 
 327 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 L Kigolette's First Sorrow .... 11 
 
 H. The Will 33 
 
 III. L'Ile du Ravageur 48 
 
 IY. The Freshwater Pirate .... 60 
 
 V. The Mother and Son 82 
 
 VI. Francois and Amandine . . . 101 
 
 VII. A Lodging-house 119 
 
 VIII. The Victims of Misplaced Confidence . 132 
 
 IX. The Rue de Chaillot . . . . . 156 
 
 X. The Comte de Saint-Remy .... 170 
 
 XI. The Interview 185 
 
 XE The Search .204 
 
 XIII. The Adieux 226 
 
 XIV. Recollections 239 
 
 XV. The Boats 262 
 
 XVI. The Happiness of Meeting . . . 273 
 
 XVII. Doctor Griffon 298 
 
 XVIII. The Portrait . . . . . .305 
 
 XIX. The Agent of Safety 315 
 
 XX. The Chouette 321 
 
 v6l. nr. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 eigolette's fiest soreow. 
 
 Rigolette's apartment was still in all its extreme 
 nicety ; the large silver watch placed over the mantel- 
 piece, in a small boxwood stand, denoted the hour 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 was scarcely 
 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. 
 
 Rigolette 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 played on 
 her jet black hair, twisted in a knot at the back of her 
 head, and shaded with a warm amber colour the ivory 
 of her industrious little fingers, which plied the needle 
 with incomparable activity. The long folds of her brown 
 gown, confined at the waist by the bands of her green 
 apron, half concealed her straw-seated chair, and her 
 pretty feet rested on the edge of a stool before her. 
 11 
 
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 stuff, 
 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 tile 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, without aid, exposed to all the 
 13 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF 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. 
 
 Frangois 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 OP PARIS. 
 
 tender, 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 united 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 I 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 pat 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, 1 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 
 office 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 will 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 
 instantly. I should have found an excuse for this ui'gent 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 notary 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 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 
 affirm 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. Bigolette, 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 ! Yesterday they took me to a place which they call the 
 d6pot 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 ! What 
 ragged wretches ! What dirty and bespattered garments ! All 
 the exterior marks of misery and vice ! There were forty or fifty 
 seated, standing, or lying on benches secured to the wall, — va- 
 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 from 
 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. 
 Eigolette. 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. Eigolette, 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, !Nb. 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 OP PARIS. 
 
 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 ! This isolation was 
 before most painful to me. Think what it must be now ! 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 
 
RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 could dare to see you iu 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 PARIS. 
 
 " 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 ? Why, 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. Honore*, 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. I 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 seeing Germain." 
 
 « Oh, thank you, M. Rodolph." 
 
 " You will not be afraid, then, of going to his prison ?" 
 
 " Certainly not ; although my heart will beat very 
 violently 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 
 him ! I ! — 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 
 
RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 goodness, it is you who are so good and kind. If any 
 one is in trouble, then you come directly." 
 
 " I have told you, my good little neighbour, that I am 
 but a poor clerk ; but when I meet with good persons 
 who deserve protection, I instantly tell a benevolent 
 individual who has entire confidence in me, and they 
 are helped at once. That's all I do in the matter." 
 
 " And where are you lodging, now you have given up 
 your chamber to the Morels ? " 
 
 " I live in a furnished lodging." 
 
 " 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 am only there at nights, and then — " 
 
 " I understand, — it is less disagreeable. Yet I 
 shouldn't like 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 
 to you the blow which Germain's misfortune has brought 
 upon me. I have seen the Morels, and others beside, 
 who were very much to be pitied certainly. But, at 
 best, misery is misery ; and amongst poor folk, who look 
 for it, it does not surprise them, and they help one 
 another as well as they can. To-day it is one, to-morrow 
 it is another. As for oneself, what with courage and 
 good spirit, one extricates oneself. But to see a poor 
 young man, honest and good, who has been your friend 
 for a long time, — to see him accused of robbery, and 
 imprisoned and huddled up with criminals ! — ah, really, 
 M. Rodolph, I cannot get over that ; it is a misfortune I 
 had never thought of, and it quite upsets me." 
 
 " Courage, courage ! Your spirits will return when 
 your friend is acquitted." 
 
 "Oh, yes, he must be acquitted. The judges have 
 only to read his letter to me, and that would be enough, 
 — would it not, M. Rodolph ? " 
 
 25 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF 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 f ar ? " 
 
 " 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 Cre'tu has piped a little to try me ; I endeav- 
 oured to answer him, but, after a minute or two, I began 
 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 Cre'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 Cre'tu 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 Cre'tu! 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 Cre'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 PARIS. 
 
 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. 1 I did not change, 
 because I never will call those birds by any other name 
 than Cretu 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 
 every day, and go to bed at twelve o'clock instead of 
 eleven o'clock ; that will be a clear gain of seven or 
 eight hours a week, which I can employ in going 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- 
 fatigued ? " 
 
 " 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 in the prison, and that will 
 give him pleasure." 
 
 " Where are your pens ? " 
 
 "There, — on the table; the knife is in 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." 
 
 Rigolette lighted a lucifer-match, and lighted a 
 wax-end in a small bright candlestick. 
 
 " The deuce, — a wax-light ! Why, neighbour, what 
 extravagance ! " 
 
 " Oh, what I burn costs but a very small trifle more 
 than a candle, and it's so much cleaner ! " 
 
 " Not much dearer ? " 
 
 " 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 very 
 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 
 
RIGOLETTE'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, 1 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 
 Francois Germain's. 
 
 32 
 
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. Honored 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. Honored 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 
 I 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 
 and 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 ! How 
 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 ' Notes 
 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 
 and 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 overflowing. 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 -will kindly accom- 
 plish it. I have witnessed the noble courage with which you 
 labour day by day, as well as the care and management reqiiisite 
 to make your hard-earned gain suffice for your moderate wants. 
 Often 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 frightful to dwell upon. And it is no small conso- 
 lation to me to believe it in my power to spare you, not only a 
 considerable share of personal inconvenience, but also to preserve 
 you from evils your unsuspicious nature dreams not of.' 
 
 " What does that last part mean, M. Rodolph ? " asked 
 Rigolette, 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 emergency. I 
 am very poor myself, but still, by dint of rigid economy, I have 
 managed to save fifteen hundred francs, which are placed in the 
 hands of a banker : it is all I am worth in the world, but by my 
 will, which you will find with this, I have ventured to bequeath 
 it to you; and I trust you will not refuse to accept this last 
 proof of the sincere affection of a friend and brother, from whom 
 death will have separated you when this meets your eye.' 
 
 " Oh, M. Rodolph," cried Rigolette, bursting into 
 tears, " this is too much ! Kind, good Germain, thus 
 to consider my future welfare ! What an excellent 
 heart he must have !." 
 
 " Worthy and noble-minded young man ! " rejoined 
 Rodolph, with deep emotion. " But calm yourself, my 
 good girl. Thank God, Germain is still living ! And, 
 by anticipating the perusal of his last wishes, you will 
 at least have learned how sincerely he loved you, — nay, 
 still loves you ! " 
 
 " 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 
 
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. E-odolph. 
 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 Eodolph. 
 
 " 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-franc 
 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. 
 
 Rodolph returned to Germain's room, when he .saw 
 Barbillon run quickly down the staircase. The ruffian 
 found on the boulevard a man of low-lived, brutal 
 appearance, waiting for him in front of a shop. 
 Although the passers-by could hear (it is true they 
 could not comprehend), Barbillon appeared so delighted 
 that he could not help saying to his companion : 
 
 " Come and ' lush a drain of red tape,' Nicholas ; the 
 old mot swallows the bait, hook and all. She'll show 
 at 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.' " 1 
 
 " Let's mizzle, 2 then ; for I must get back to Asnieres 
 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 St. 
 Denis. 
 
 Some minutes afterwards Rigolette and Rodolph left 
 Germain's, got into the hackney-coach, and reached the 
 Rue du Temple. 
 
 The coach stopped. 
 
 At the moment when the door opened, Rodolph 
 recognised by the light of the dram-shop lamps his 
 faithful Murphy, who was waiting for him at the door 
 of the entrance. 
 
 The squire's presence always announced some serious 
 and sudden event, for it was he alone who knew at all 
 times where to find the prince. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " inquired Rodolph, quickly, 
 
 1 " Come and let's have some brandy together, Nicholas. The old woman 
 falls easily into the snare. She will come to the Chouette's ; Mother Martial 
 will help us to take her jewels from her forcibly, and then we can remove 
 the dead body away in your boat." 
 
 2 " 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, I 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'tl?" 
 
 " 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 hackney-coach, 
 which took them to the Rue Plumet. Rodolph imme- 
 diately wrote the following note to Cle'mence : 
 
 " 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 this 
 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 very 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, Cle'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 S6raphin, 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 S6raphin. 
 
 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 SeYaphin, was then a 
 prisoner in St. Lazare, under the name of La Goualeuse ; 
 and that if he did not give ten thousand francs (400Z.) 
 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 in 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 Se'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 to 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 Se'raphin went with all speed to the 
 Martials. 
 
 47 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 l'ile du ravageub. 
 
 The following scenes took place during the evening of 
 the day in which Madame Seraphin, 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 
 Asnieres. 
 
 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 
 
 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 to 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 ravageurs, 
 as well as the debardeurs and dechireurs of boats, remain 
 nearly the whole of the day plunged in water up to the 
 waist in the exercise of their trade. The dSbardeurs 
 bring ashore the floating wood. The dechireurs 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 poor 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 Bou- 
 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. Allier, 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 
 sufficient to affirm the moral idea of our work. We are very proud and very 
 happy to have been met in 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 legislature 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 
 so vital and so deeply interesting to social organisation. 
 
 52 
 
L'lLE DU RAVAGEUR. 
 
 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. Francois, 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 
 (Calebasse). 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. 
 
 Francois, the youngest of the Martial sons, was sitting 
 54 
 
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, 
 out 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 vic- 
 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. 
 
 " fYancois, 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, Francois ? " 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, Francois ? " 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. 
 Frangois 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 
 Frangois 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, turning pale. " I'd 
 rather be beaten as I was the day before yesterday, than 
 — 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 ? " 
 
 Francois 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 Francois, 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 RAVAGEUR. 
 
 " And, of course, you told your brother, your dear 
 friend Martial, of your grand discovery, didn't you?" 
 asked Calabash, with brutal irony. 
 
 Frangois 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. 
 
 5& 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE FRESHWATEE 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 Francois, 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 sufficiently 
 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 ~ l 
 
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. 
 m Calabash, 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 Francois against everything either 
 you or I order them to do. Do you think this can last 
 much longer ? " 
 
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 interrupted 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- 
 64 
 
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.' 
 4 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 his 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, — 
 that is my only fear ; as for any other sort of dread, 
 
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 Franc,ois, 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 Francois. 
 
 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 well-conducted 
 person if placed in comparison with Nicholas, Calabash, 
 or his brother, the felon at Toulon. 
 
 67 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Which 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 Francois 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 
 
 68 
 
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 ! " 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. Honored will take the rest of the swag." 
 
 " Amandine," whispered Francois 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, 111 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 OF 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 Frangois, 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 
 up-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 ever go and be persuaded 
 by Martial again ? Did he aver give you beautiful silk 
 handkerchiefs like those, I should be glad to know ? " 
 
 Frangois and Amandine looked at each other, then 
 hung down their heads, and made no answer. 
 
 " Answer, can't you ? " persisted Calabash, roughly. 
 " I ask you whether you ever received such presents 
 from Martial?" 
 
 " No," answered Frangois, 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, Frangois, 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, Frangois ? " said Nicholas, brutally. 
 
THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 " Yes, brother," replied Francois. 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 me that the children at the kilns will 
 be so mad with me for being smarter than they ; don't 
 you, Amandine ? " 
 
 " No, Francois, 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, 
 " Francois 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," 
 »aid Nicholas. 
 
 " Yes," chimed in Calabash, " throw it in 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 
 75 
 
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 I 
 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 Se'raphin to the Martials, whom 
 he hoped to find the ready instruments of his fresh 
 crime. 
 
 " ' Bradamanti,' said the man to me," continued 
 Nicholas ; " th:,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 ? ' 4 That you wished to 
 speak to me on the part of M. Bradamanti.' 4 You have 
 a boat ? ' ' We have four, that's our number : boatmen 
 and ravageurs, from father to son, at your service.' 
 4 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 ? ' 4 Yes.' 4 Five hundred 
 francs a head, master ; that's not too dear.' 4 Agreed, 
 for a thousand francs.' ' Money down, master ? ' ' Two 
 hundred francs now, and the rest afterwards.' ' Then 
 you doubt me, master ? ' 4 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 flat-bottomed ? ' 'Flat 
 as your hand, master.' ' Then you must make, very 
 skilfully, a sort of large hole in the bottom of one of 
 f hese 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.' i 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 Seraphin, 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 Chouette should inform 
 Fleur-de-Marie at any moment that she had been aban- 
 doned by Madame S£raphin, 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 Se'raphin, 
 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 begun 
 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 Francois 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 Francois, 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 
 81 
 
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 will 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 ? " 
 86 
 
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 the 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 OP 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." 
 a 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, 
 and that is the cause of your hatred." 
 
 " And what track are you following now ? You 
 88 
 
THE MOTHER AXD 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 ! " 1 
 
 " 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 exaggerated. The follow- 
 ing is from the admirable report of M. de Bretigneres 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; 124 whose 
 parents have not been pursued by justice, but are in the utmost distress. 
 These figures are eloquent, and full of instruction. They allow us 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 which 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 example. Arrested by the hand of the law, they 
 resign themselves 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 natures, 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 ! " 
 " For me ? " 
 
 " 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 ? 
 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 
 will." 
 
 " Just now you tried to make me frightened in one 
 way, now you are trying another tack. But it won't 
 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 
 night here ? " 
 
 " Christmas night ? " said Martial, trying 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 of 
 concealing himself ? " 
 
 " Yes, now I remember. I went up to bed and left 
 him taking his supper with you. He passed the night 
 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?" 
 
 u Why, that night this man, who had a good deal of 
 money about him, was murdered in this house." 
 "Mur— ! 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 Francis 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 dwelling 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 ! " 
 
 (i !Rut, 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. Francois 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 Francois 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 off, 
 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." 
 
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 Frar^ois, 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. 
 
 100 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FRANCOIS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 Francois and Amandine slept in a room immediately 
 over the kitchen, and at the end of a passage which com- 
 municated 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 
 Francois, 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 
 how to dress her head en marmotte, with the stolen silk 
 handkerchief, the gift of her brother Nicholas. Francois 
 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, Francois 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- 
 cois 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 
 
FRANCOIS 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, Francois," 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, Francois ? " 
 
 " 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, Francis, 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, Francois, 
 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 
 
FRANCOIS 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. What 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, Francois ? " 
 
 " 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, Fran§ois, — 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, Francois, 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 scruff of my neck, whilst with the other 
 she beat me ; and whilst she did so, her eyes seemed to 
 glare in the dark." 
 
 106 
 
FRANCOIS 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 Franc,ois, 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, Francois ? " 
 
 " 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, Francois ; 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 muffs ! "' 
 "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 yourself." 
 
 " 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, Francois ? " 
 
 " 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, Francis, 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 
 
FRANCOIS 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, Francois ? Ah, Fran§ois, 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, ar^ 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 Frangois. 
 
 " 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 with 
 110 
 
FRANCOIS 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 live here, that's all." 
 
 " Yes, thatfo 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 Frangois, 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, Francois 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, Francois, you lie ? " said Martial. 
 
 The boy bent down his head, but made no reply. 
 
 " Give me this handkerchief, Amandine ; and yours, 
 too, Francois." 
 
 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 Francois. 
 
 " When you have learned a trade, and earn money by 
 your work, you will buy some as good. Go to bed, my 
 dears, — it is very late." 
 
 112 
 
FRANCOIS 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 ? " 
 "Mafoi, 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 OP 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, Francis ! 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 
 Francis, " 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 Francois. 
 " 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, Francois added : 
 1H 
 
FRANCOIS 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, Francois! 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, "Francois, 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 OF 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, Francois." 
 
 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. 
 
 Francois 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, 
 Francois 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 Francois 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 
 
FRANCOIS 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." 
 
 Francois, 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 Francois 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 Francois 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 Se'raphin was to take Fleur-de-Marie 
 thither. 
 
 118 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 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. 
 Honore*, 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 the 
 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. 
 
 nose, 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 worthy 
 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 ? " inquired 
 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, Andr6, 
 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 foil I don't know." 
 
 « Don't know ? " 
 
 " No," replied Nicholas, assuming an indifferent air ; 
 12] 
 
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. Honore. 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 w 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 ? 99 
 
 "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 Andre* 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 Andre 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 them, 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 
 still?" 
 
 " 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 the country. , 
 But I believe his country-house is about the Rue Yivi- 
 enne, or the Rue St. HonoreV' 
 
 "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 bonne of my independent lady, Madame 
 Saint-Ildefonse. 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 hinges 
 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 P£re Micou. The reader may, 
 perchance, recollect that 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 my 
 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, Pere Micou," said M. Badinot, with a protecting 
 air, " 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 Cafe 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 OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 1 
 
 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 early 
 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 average punishment awarded to such as are convicted of breach 
 of trust is two months' imprisonment and a fine of twenty-five francs." — 
 Art. 406 and 408 of the " Code Penal." 
 
 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 
 i33 
 
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 
 both 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 CONFIDENCE. 
 
 " How cold she is ! " cried the poor mother, lightly 
 touching with her icy hand the equally chill arm of her 
 child ; " how very, very cold ! and scarcely an hour ago 
 just as hot ! Alas, 'tis the cruel fever which has seized 
 upon her ! Happily the dear creature is as yet uncon- 
 scious of her malady ! Gracious heaven, she is becom- 
 ing 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 brutally intox- 
 icated should endeavour, as they did yesterday, to look 
 into the room through the disjointed panels or openings 
 in the framework. 
 
 " What a horrible place we have got into ! Oh, if I 
 had but known by what description of persons it was 
 inhabited before I paid the fortnight in advance ! Cer- 
 tainly, we would not have remained here. But, alas, I 
 knew it not ; and when we have no vouchers for our 
 respectability, it is so difficult to obtain furnished lodg- 
 ings. Who 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 
 public conveyance ? How could I have imagined that 
 I should experience any difficulty in obtaining every 
 requisite testimonial of my honour and honesty ? " 
 
 Then bursting into a fit of anger, she exclaimed, 
 " 'Tis too, too hard, that because this unprincipled, 
 hard-hearted notary chooses to strip us of all our 
 possessions, I have no means of punishing him ! Yes ; 
 had I money I might sue him legally for his miscon- 
 duct. But would not that be to bring obloquy and 
 contempt on the memory of my good, my noble-minded 
 brother ; to have it publicly proclaimed that he con- 
 summated his ruin by taking away his own life, after 
 having squandered my fortune and that of my child ; 
 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 welfare 
 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 that 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 Fermont, 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 the 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, 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 realities of her 
 present position, altogether overcome by the painful 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 myself 
 from the deplorable condition to which the villainy of 
 this man has brought us, I cannot answer for myself, 
 or what I may do. I may be driven by madness to 
 retaliate on this man, even by taking his life. 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. 
 
 " 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 it is 
 to all, is still more formidable to those who have lived 
 surrounded not only with every comfort, but even luxury. 
 139 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF 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 the 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 yo.u fairly, one I 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 immediately, or I will 
 call for assistance." 
 
 " Once, — twice, — thrice, — you will not ? Well, 
 142 
 
VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 then, here goes ! Now I'll smash your old timbers 
 into morsels too small for you to pick up. Hu ! — 
 hu! — haUo! 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." 
 147 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " And then, perhaps, too, we could learn from him if 
 M. 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 
 
 118 
 
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-Mestante 
 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, Andre*, has come from the 
 Poste-Mestante. 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 ! 
 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., Poste-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 
 excite 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. 
 
 " 1 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 Fermont, 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 Fermont 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 garden in 
 this quarter, so solitary, although so close to the Champs 
 Elyse'es, the most fashionable promenade in Paris. 
 
 It is useless to enumerate the advantages which M. de 
 Saint-Remy, who was decidedly a man d bonnes fortunes, 
 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 subjects, 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 seats 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, he 
 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-Reiny's house was 
 exceedingly maseuline 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. cle 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, cunning 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 foi ! 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 
 have expired, and I become proprietor of the horses and 
 carriages." 
 
 " Nothing plainer. The agreement was drawn up by 
 M. BadiDot, 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 up 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 Vicomte detests details. When I entered in 
 his service I had, by savings and inheritance, sixty thou- 
 sand francs (2,400L). I paid the expenses of the house 
 as you did of the stables ; and every year M. le Vicomte 
 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 
 Vicomte 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 (5,600L). 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 Vicomte 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 Yicomte inherited — " 
 
 " Only a miserable million (40,000?.), ready money," 
 said M. Boyer, with a disdainful air, and taking a pinch 
 of snuff. " Add to this two hundred thousand francs 
 of debts (8,000?.), 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 Yicomte 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 (10,000?.) 
 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 chambre. He patronises me, — the fool ! " 
 163 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 And M. Boyer shrugged his shoulders, whilst he inhaled 
 another large pinch of snuff. 
 " You hope to get rid of him ? " 
 
 " Parbleu, he is a jackanapes, — an ass ! He places 
 me there as if he ought not 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, reflecting ; " and a young 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." 
 
 "Ma 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 M. 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 Yicomte 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 entree 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 
 yonr 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-Re my, 
 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 
 106 
 
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 Vicomte 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 
 i67 
 
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, when 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 - EEMY. 
 
 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 Yicomte 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 chambre, 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 ehambre 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 my 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 ! 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. 
 
 173 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 It is necessary to offer some explanation of this unex- 
 pected visit. 
 
 Florestan 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 Florestan 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 Florestan 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 Noirmont, 
 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- REM Y. 
 
 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, I 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, c 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 PARTS. 
 
 other than to meet her lover's father in her lover's 
 house. 
 
 " If you have been in Paris for any time," continued 
 Madame de Lucenay, " it is very naughty 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 HStel de Lucenay. M. de Saint- 
 Remy 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 pleasure, at again seeing Florestan. 
 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. de 
 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- 
 1TS 
 
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 OP PARIS. 
 
 cannot imagine my suffering and my uneasiness after 
 the departure of Madame de Fermont 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 therefore 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 I began my 
 researches. I went first to the old servant of Madame 
 de Fermont'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 despaired, I 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 Lucenay,' 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 interest 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-Restante." 
 
 " 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 Asniesres, 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- REM Y. 
 
 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 victim 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 apprehended ; 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 the slightest indiscretion. Twice lending him 
 considerable sums under very trying circumstances, she 
 had wished to render him 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 how she 
 could be useful to Florestan, without ever reflecting as to 
 whether or not he would ever return the sums thus 
 advanced. He 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, " when 
 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 ! 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 TrihunauxP 
 
 " 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 ! 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 : " Mon 
 Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" 
 
 During this conversation, which unveiled to the 
 comte the infamy of his son, and to Madame de 
 Lucenay 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 recherche, 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 
 vicomte'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 elite. 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 d 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 
 I 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 ! Bah ! Really ? " said the comte, with fierce 
 irony. 
 
 " You do not believe me, 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 coup de 
 theatre. 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 INTERVIEW. 
 
 and I was attached to the legation to Gerolstein. Un- 
 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, c 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 SAIKT-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 
 (10,400?.), my lord." 
 
 " And you and Edwards will thus clear — " 
 
 "About forty thousand francs (1,600Z.), 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 SEAECH. 
 
 The Hfitel 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 h6tel 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. 
 
 2&t 
 
THE SEARCH. 
 
 By the attention of the footmen in the antechamber, 
 who hastened to open the glass door as soon as they 
 saw Morestan'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 Plorestan 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 he 
 passed completed the excellent opinion which Florestan 
 had of himself. The valet de chambre 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 ihat 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, 
 that 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 chambre, 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 
 Me'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 
 Me'rinville?" 
 
 " 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 ! and that's true. What a forgetful rascal 
 I am ! Au revoir, 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 h6tel ! " 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. He 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 Ferrand 
 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 account 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 OP PARIS. 
 
 missary, he had quickly gained the boudoir, then the 
 conservatory, then the lone alley, and so to the Champs 
 Elyse'es. 
 
 The picture of this ignoble degradation 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 imparts 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 man B with 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 XIII. 
 
 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, Fleur-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 they dragged in the 
 mud of the yard. I am very grateful to my companions 
 who have been so very kind to me ; that'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 OP 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- J ean ? 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, Mont 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 seat 
 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 
 
 1 
 
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 Seraphin 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. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 EECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 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 Seraphin 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 Seraphin exciting any mis- 
 trust in the mind of her victim. Madame Seraphin 
 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 SeVaphin, 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 Seraphin, 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 my 
 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 had 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. 1 
 
 " 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 ogress'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 maison 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 ! " replied 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 live 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 like 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: 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 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 
 S6raphin, 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 Se'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 Bontemps, — 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 Seraphin 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 Groualeuse ; " how happy 
 246 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 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 : 6 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 coining 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 volumes 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. 6 If that is the way,' 
 said I, 4 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 Meur-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, 4 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 
 Se'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 Se"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 Se"ra- 
 phin. " Well, Fm 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 Pvigolette, 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 PAEIS. 
 
 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 Se'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 1 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 prote*ge*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. 
 Eodolph 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 
 acquainted 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 MYSTERIES 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 you 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 Se'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 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 " 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 Sdraphin, 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 
 colombes, 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 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 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 unhappy, 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 Se'raphin, 
 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 ! 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 ! " 
 
 " Well, well, 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 ! 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 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 " 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 S£raphin 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. 
 
 During 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 Francois 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 Seraphin 
 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 Elyse'es at five o'clock. TVe 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. 
 
 knows, 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 F6rot, 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 Fdrot swallowed all, like so 
 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 Francis 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 Francois, 
 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 SeVaphin 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 Fe"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 
 268 
 
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 Seraphin 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 Se"raphin and Fleur- 
 de-Marie had been waiting. Whilst Nicholas was fas- 
 tening his boat to a post on the bank, Madame SeVaphin 
 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 Seraphin, 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 
 Seraphin. 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 
 Seraphin, 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 Se'raphin 
 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 Seraphin, 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 Ferot, 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 Fe'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 Fe'rot. " 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 Fe'rot'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 Ferot 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 will 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 Fe*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, 1 He's bad a-bed in the 
 isle, and we don't look for him to get better ! ' ' Oh, 
 oh ! ' says I to myself, 4 that's it, is it ? It's three days 
 since — ' Holla ! stop, I say ! " cried old F6rot, 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 enjoying 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 AsniSres, 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 Seraphin, 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 Seraphin, he contrived to give the 
 small vessel so great a shock as almost threw the 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 cried 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 
 Goualeuse 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 
 SSraphin 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 windows, 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, 
 285 
 
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 Francois 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 Francois, " 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! 
 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 mine ? " 
 
 " 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 4 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. 
 
 « Where to ? " 
 
 " 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 
 my 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 ! " 
 
 " 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 ; Fran<jois and Aman- 
 
 296 
 
THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING 
 
 dine are there watching her, and they would have 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 XVII. 
 
 DOCTOB 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 : 
 
 "Parbleu! 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 
 nothing 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 his 
 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 will 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 
 Francois and Amandine, La Louve being unwilling to 
 quit Fleur-de-Marie before she had been pronounced 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 PORTRAIT. 
 
 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 m 
 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 fourline 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 they 
 come in contact with low wretches whom they take as 
 tools or accomplices. 
 
 Thomas Seyton, who, until now, had actively served 
 the crimiual 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 qf 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 
 303 
 
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 Dieu!" 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 you 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, 
 ma foil" 
 
 " 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 Seraphin, 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 Elysees. 
 
 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 Elys6es, 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-stirete 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 
 unite 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, no 
 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?" 
 
 "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 Barri&re 
 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. 
 
 320 
 
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, 
 La Chouette ? " 
 
 " 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 Ohouette 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. t 
 " 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 f outline 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- 
 line" 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 hear, 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 buffer?" added Torfillard. 
 
 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- 1 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, 4 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 
 you 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 the 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 ! I 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 ! 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 ruffian, 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 OF PARIS. 
 
 by this attack, now all burst forth suddenly, terribly, 
 and carried with it his reason, already so steongly 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 ! 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 CHOUETTE. 
 
 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, 
 
THE MYSTERIES OP 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. 
 
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