Collected Works of Eugène Sue Page 10

  “Well, well.”

  “After waiting with her for an hour, you may say, ‘My mate does not come, and so the job must be put off;’ and then you may make an appointment with the Chouette and the Schoolmaster for to-morrow, at an early hour. Do you understand me?”

  “Quite.”

  “And this evening, at ten o’clock, meet me at the corner of the Champs Elysées and the Allée des Veuves, and I will tell you more.”

  “If it is a trap, look out! The Schoolmaster is a scoundrel. You have beaten him, and, no doubt, he will kill you if he can.”

  “Have no fear.”

  “By Jove! it is a ‘rum start;’ but do as you like with me. I do not hesitate, for something tells me that there is a rod in pickle for the Schoolmaster and the Chouette. One word, though, if you please, M. Rodolph.”

  “Say it.”

  “I do not think you are the man to lay a trap, and set the police on the Schoolmaster. He is an arrant blackguard, who deserves a hundred deaths; but to have them arrested, that I will not have a hand in.”

  “Nor I, my boy; but I have a score to wipe off with him and the Chouette, because they are in a plot with others against me; but we two will baffle them completely, if you will lend me your assistance.”

  “Of course I will; and, if that is to be the game, I am your man. But quick, quick,” cried the Chourineur, “down there I see the head of the Chouette. I know it is her bonnet. Go, go, and I will drop into my hole.”

  “To-night, then, at ten o’clock.”

  “At the corner of the Champs Elysées and the Allée des Veuves; all right.”

  Fleur-de-Marie had not heard a word of the latter part of the conversation between the Chourineur and Rodolph, and now entered again into the coach with her travelling companion.

  CHAPTER X.

  CASTLES IN THE AIR.

  FOR SOME TIME after this conversation with the Chourineur, Rodolph remained preoccupied and pensive, while Fleur-de-Marie, too timid to break the silence, continued to gaze on him with saddened earnestness. At length Rodolph looked up, and, meeting her mournful look, smiled kindly on her, and said, “What are you thinking of, my child? I fear our rencontre with the Chourineur has made you uncomfortable, and we were so merry, too.”

  “Oh, no, M. Rodolph, indeed, I do not mind it at all; nay, I even believe the meeting with the Chourineur may be useful to you.”

  “Did not this man pass amongst the inhabitants of the tapis-franc as possessing some good points among his many bad ones?”

  “Indeed, I know not, M. Rodolph; for although, previously to the scene of yesterday, I had frequently seen him, I had scarcely ever spoken to him. I always looked upon him as bad as all the rest.”

  “Well, well, do not let us talk any more about him, my pretty Fleur-de-Marie. I should be sorry, indeed, to make you sad, — I, who brought you out purposely that you might spend a happy day.”

  “Oh, I am happy. It is so very long since I have been out of Paris.”

  “Not since your grand doings with Rigolette.”

  “Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph; but that was in the spring. Yet, though it is now autumn, I enjoy it quite as much. How beautifully the sun shines! Only look at the gold-coloured clouds out there — there, I mean; and then that hill, with its pretty white houses half hid among the trees, and the leaves still so green, though we are in the middle of the month of October. Do not you think it is wonderful, M. Rodolph, they should so well preserve their verdure? In Paris, all the leaves wither so soon. Look! look at those pigeons! how many there are! and how high they fly! Now they are settling on that old mill. One is never tired in the open fields of looking at all these amusing sights.”

  “It, is, indeed, a pleasure to behold the delight you seem to take in all these trifling matters, Fleur-de-Marie; though they, in reality, constitute the charm of a landscape.”

  And Rodolph was right; for the countenance of his companion, while gazing upon the fair, calm scene before her, was lit up with an expression of the purest joy.

  “See!” she exclaimed, after intently watching the different objects that unfolded themselves to her eager look, “see how beautifully the clear white smoke rises from those cottages, and ascends to the very clouds themselves; and there are some men ploughing the land. What a capital plough they have got, drawn by those two fine gray horses. Oh, if I were a man, how I should like to be a husbandman, to go out in the fields, and drive one’s own plough; and then when you look to see the blue skies, and the green shiny leaves of the neighbouring forests, — such a day as to-day, for instance, when you feel half inclined to weep, without knowing why, and begin singing old and melancholy songs, like ‘Geneviève de Brabant.’ Do you know ‘Geneviève de Brabant,’ M. Rodolph?”

  “No, my child; but I hope you will have the kindness to sing it to me before the day is over. You know our time is all our own.”

  At these words, which reminded the poor Goualeuse that her newly tasted happiness was fast fleeting away, and that, at the close of this, the brightest day that had ever shone on her existence, she must return to all the horrors of a corrupt city, her feelings broke through all restraint, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. Much surprised at her emotion, Rodolph kindly inquired its cause.

  “What ails you, Fleur-de-Marie? What fresh grief have you found?”

  “Nothing, — nothing indeed, M. Rodolph,” replied the girl, drying her eyes and trying to smile. “Pray forgive me for being so sad, and please not to notice it. I assure you I have nothing at all to grieve about, — it is only a fancy; and now I am going to be quite gay, you will see.”

  “And you were as gay as could be a few minutes ago.”

  “Yes, I know I was; and it was my thinking how soon—” answered Fleur-de-Marie, naïvely, and raising her large, tearful blue eyes, with touching candour, to his face.

  The look, the words, fully enlightened Rodolph as to the cause of her distress, and, wishing to dissipate it, he said, smilingly:

  “I would lay a wager you are regretting your poor rose-tree, and are crying because you could not bring it out walking with you, as you used to do.”

  La Goualeuse fell into the good-natured scheme for regaining her cheerfulness, and by degrees the clouds of sadness cleared away from her fair young face; and once again she appeared absorbed in the pleasure of the moment, without allowing herself to recollect the future that would succeed it. The vehicle had by this time almost arrived at St. Denis, and the tall spires of the cathedral were visible.

  “Oh, what a fine steeple!” exclaimed La Goualeuse.

  “It is that of the splendid church of St. Denis: would you like to see it? We can easily stop our carriage.”

  Poor Fleur-de-Marie cast down her eyes. “From the hour I went to live with the ogress,” said she, in a low tone, while deep blushes dyed her cheek, “I never once entered a church, — I durst not. When in prison, on the contrary, I used to delight in helping to sing the mass; and, against the Fête-Dieu, oh, I made such lovely bouquets for the altar!”

  “But God is merciful and good; why, then, fear to pray to him, or to enter his holy church?”

  “Oh, no, no, M. Rodolph! I have offended God deeply enough; let me not add impiety and sacrilege to my sins.”

  After a moment’s silence, Rodolph again renewed the conversation, and, kindly taking the hand of La Goualeuse, said, “Fleur-de-Marie, tell me honestly, have you ever known what it is to love?”

  “Never, M. Rodolph.”

  “And how do you account for this?”

  “You saw the kind of persons who frequented the tapis-franc. And then, to love, the object should be good and virtuous—”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Oh, because one’s lover, or husband, would be all in all to us, and we should seek no greater happiness than devoting our life to him. But, M. Rodolph, if you please, we will talk of something else, for the tears will come into my eyes.”

  “Willingly, Fleur-de-Marie;
let us change the conversation. And now tell me, why do you look so beseechingly at me with those large, tearful eyes? Have I done anything to displease you?”

  “On the contrary, ’tis the excess of your goodness that makes me weep; indeed, I could almost fancy that you had brought me out solely for my individual pleasure and enjoyment, without thinking of yourself. Not content with your generous defence of me yesterday, you have to-day procured for me happiness such as I never hoped to enjoy.”

  “You are, then, truly and entirely happy?”

  “Never, never shall I forget to-day.”

  “Happiness does not often attend us on earth,” said Rodolph, sighing.

  “Alas, no! Seldom, perhaps never.”

  “For my own part, to make up for a want of reality in its possession, I often amuse myself with pictures of what I would have if I could, saying to myself, this is how, and where, I should like to live, — this is the sort of income I should like to enjoy. Have you never, my little Fleur-de-Marie, amused yourself with building similar ‘castles in the air?’”

  “Yes, formerly, when I was in prison, before I went to live with the ogress, — then I used to do nothing all day but dance, sing, and build these fairy dreams; but I very seldom do so now. Tell me, M. Rodolph, if you could have any wish you liked, what should you most desire?”

  “Oh, I should like to be rich, with plenty of servants and carriages; to possess a splendid hôtel, and to mix in the first circles of fashion; to be able to obtain any amusement I pleased, and to go to the theatres and opera whenever I chose.”

  “Well, then, you would be more unreasonable than I should. Now I will tell you exactly what would satisfy me in every respect: first of all, sufficient money to clear myself with the ogress, and to keep me till I could obtain work for my future support; then a pretty, little, nice, clean room, all to myself, from the window of which I could see the trees while I sat at my work.”

  “Plenty of flowers in your casement, of course?”

  “Oh, certainly! And, if it could be managed, to live in the country always. And that, I think, is all I should want.”

  “Let me see: a little room, and work enough to maintain you, — those are positive necessaries; but, when one is merely wishing, there is no harm in adding a few superfluities. Should you not like such nice things as carriages, diamonds, and rich clothes?”

  “Not at all! All I wish for is my free and undisturbed liberty, — a country life, and the certainty of not dying in a hospital. Oh, that idea is dreadful! Above all things, I would desire the certainty of its never being my fate. Oh, M. Rodolph, that dread often comes across me and fills me with terror.”

  “Alas! poor folks, such as we are, should not shrink from such things.”

  “’Tis not the dying in a charitable institution I dread, or the poverty that would send me into it, but the thoughts of what they do to your lifeless remains.”

  “What do they do that shocks you so much?”

  “Is it possible, M. Rodolph, you have never been told what will become of you if you die in one of those places?”

  “No, indeed, I have not; do you tell me.”

  “Well, then, I knew a young girl, who had been a sort of companion to me when I was in prison; she afterwards died in a hospital, and what do you think? Her body was given to the surgeons for dissection!” murmured the shuddering Fleur-de-Marie.

  “That is, indeed, a frightful idea! And do these miserable anticipations often trouble you, my poor girl?”

  “Ah, M. Rodolph, it surprises you that, after my unhappy life, I can feel any concern as to what becomes of my miserable remains! God knows, the feeling which makes me shrink from such an outrage to modesty is all my wretched fate has left me!”

  The mournful tone in which these words were uttered, and the bitter feelings they contained, went to the heart of Rodolph; but his companion, quickly perceiving his air of dejection, and blaming herself for having caused it, said, timidly:

  “M. Rodolph, I feel that I am behaving very ill and ungratefully towards you, who so kindly brought me out to amuse me and give me pleasure; in return for which I only keep talking to you about all the dull and gloomy things I can think of! I wonder how I can do so! — to be able even to recollect my misery, when all around me smiles and looks so gay! I cannot tell how it is, words seem to rise from my lips in spite of myself; and, though I feel happier to-day than I ever did before in my life, my eyes are continually filling with tears! You are not angry with me, are you, M. Rodolph? See, too, my sadness is going away as suddenly as it came. There now, it is all gone, and shall not return to vex you any more, I am determined. Look, M. Rodolph, just look at my eyes, — they do not show that I have been crying, do they?”

  And here Fleur-de-Marie, having repeatedly closed her eyes to get rid of the rebellious tears that would gather there, opened them full upon Rodolph, with a look of most enchanting candour and sweetness.

  “Put no restraint on yourself, I beseech you, Fleur-de-Marie: be gay, if you really feel so; or sad, if sadness most suits your present state of mind. I have my own hours of gloom and melancholy, and my sufferings would be much increased were I compelled to feign a lightness of heart I did not really possess.”

  “Can it be possible, M. Rodolph, that you are ever sad?”

  “Quite possible, my child, and true. Alas! the prospect before me is but little brighter than your own. I, like you, am without friends or parents; what would become of me if I were to fall ill and be unable to earn my daily bread, — for I need scarcely tell you I live but from day to day, and spend my money quite as fast as I obtain it?”

  “Oh, but that is wrong, M. Rodolph, — very, very wrong!” said La Goualeuse, in a tone of such deep and grave remonstrance as made him smile. “You should always lay by something. Look at me: why, all my troubles and misfortunes have happened because I did not save my money more carefully. If once a person can get a hundred francs beforehand, he need never fear falling into any one’s power; generally, a difficulty about money puts very evil thoughts into our head.”

  “All that is very wise and very sensible, my frugal little friend; but a hundred francs! — that is a large sum; how could a man like myself ever amass so much?”

  “Why, M. Rodolph, it is really very easy, if you will but consider a little. First of all, I think you said you could earn five francs a day?”

  “Yes, so I can, when I choose to work.”

  “Ah! but you should work, constantly and regularly; and yours is such a pretty trade. To paint fans! how nice such work must be, — mere amusement, quite a recreation! I cannot think why you should ever be tired or dull. Indeed, M. Rodolph, I must tell you plainly I do not pity you at all; and, besides, really you talk like a mere child when you say you cannot save money out of such large earnings,” added La Goualeuse, in a sweet, but, for her, severe tone. “Why, a workman may live well upon three francs a day; there remain forty sous; at the end of a month, if you manage prudently, you will have saved sixty francs. Think of that! There’s a sum! — sixty francs in one month!”

  “Oh, but one likes to show off sometimes, and to indulge in a little idleness.”

  “There now, M. Rodolph, I declare you make me quite angry to hear you talk so childishly! Pray let me advise you to be wiser.”

  “Come, then, my sage little monitress, I will be a good boy, and listen to all your careful advice. And your idea of saving, too, is a remarkably good one; I never thought of it before.”

  “Really!” exclaimed the poor girl, clapping her hands with joy. “Oh, if you knew how delighted I am to hear you say so! Then you will begin from to-day to lay by the forty sous we were talking about, will you? Will you, indeed?”

  “I give you my honour that, from this very hour, I will resolve to follow up your most excellent plan, and save forty sous out of each day’s pay.”

  “Are you quite, quite sure you will?”

  “Nay, have I not promised you that I will?”

  “You
will see how proud and happy you will be with your first savings; and that is not all — ah, if you would promise not to be angry!”

  “Do I look as though I could be so unkind, Fleur-de-Marie, as to find fault with anything you said?”

  “Oh, no, indeed, that you do not; only I hardly know whether I ought—”

  “You ought to tell me everything you think or feel, Fleur-de-Marie.”

  “Well, then, I was wondering how you, who, it is easily seen, are above your condition, can frequent such low cabarets as that kept by the ogress.”

  “Had I not done so, I should not have had the pleasure of wandering in the fields with you to-day, my dear Fleur-de-Marie.”

  “That is, indeed, true, M. Rodolph; but, still, it does not alter my first opinion. No, much as I enjoy to-day’s treat, I would cheerfully give up all thoughts of ever passing such another if I thought it could in any way injure you.”

  “Injure me! Far from it! Think of the excellent advice you have been giving me.”

  “Which you have promised me to follow?”

  “I have; and I pledge my word of honour to save henceforward at least forty sous a day.” Thus speaking, Rodolph called out to the driver of their vehicle, who was passing the village of Sarcelles, “Take the first road to the right, cross Villiers to Bel, turn to the left, then keep along quite straight.”

  “Now,” said Rodolph, turning to his companion, “that I am a good boy, and promised to do all you tell me, let us go back to our diversion of building castles in the air: that does not run away with much money. You will not object to such a method of amusing myself, will you?”

  “Oh, no, build as many as you like, they are very cheaply raised, and very easily knocked down when you are tired of them. Now, then, you begin.”

  “Well, then — No! Fleur-de-Marie, you shall build up yours first.”

  “I wonder if you could guess what I should choose, if wishing were all, M. Rodolph.”

  “Let us try. Suppose that this road — I say this road, because we happen to be on it—”