Collected Works of Eugène Sue Read online

  “M. Rodolph, I have told you: she had scarcely entered my room, when, seeing the crucifix, she fell on her knees before it. It is impossible for me to tell you, to describe the spontaneous and naturally religious feeling that evidently dictated this. I saw in an instant that hers was no degraded soul. And then, M. Rodolph, the expression of her gratitude to you had nothing exaggerated in it; but it is not the less sincere. And I have another proof of how natural and potent is this religious instinct in her. I said to her, ‘You must have been much astonished, and very happy, when M. Rodolph told you that you were to remain here for the future? What an effect it must have had on you!’ ‘Yes, oh, yes,’ was her reply; ‘when M. Rodolph told me so, I cannot describe what passed within me; but I felt that kind of holy happiness which I experience in going into a church. When I could go there,’ she added, ‘for you know, madame—’ ‘I know, my child, for I shall always call you my child (I could not let her go on when I saw her cover her face for shame), I know that you have suffered deeply; but God blesses those who love and fear him, those who have been unhappy, and those who repent.’”

  “Then, my good Madame Georges, I am doubly happy at what I have done. This poor girl will greatly interest you, her disposition is so excellent, her instincts so right.”

  “What has besides affected me, M. Rodolph, is that she has not allowed one single question to escape her about you, although her curiosity must be so much excited. Struck with a reserve so full of delicacy, I wished to know what she felt. I said to her, ‘You must be very curious to know who your mysterious benefactor is?’ ‘Know him!’ she replied, with delightful simplicity; ‘he is my benefactor.’”

  “Then you will love her. Excellent woman! she will find some interest in your heart.”

  “Yes, I shall occupy my heart with her as I should with him,” said Madame Georges, in a broken voice.

  Rodolph took her hand.

  “Do not be discouraged; come, come, if our search has been unsuccessful so far, yet one day, perhaps—”

  Madame Georges shook her head sorrowfully, and said, in bitter accents, “My poor son would be now twenty years old!”

  “Say he is that age—”

  “God hear you, and grant it, M. Rodolph.”

  “He will hear, I fully believe. Yesterday I went (but in vain) to find a certain fellow called Bras Rouge who might, perhaps, have given me some information about your son. Coming away from this Bras Rouge’s abode, after a struggle in which I was engaged, I met with this unfortunate girl—”

  “Alas! but your kind endeavour in my behalf has thrown in your way another unfortunate being, M. Rodolph.”

  “You have no intelligence from Rochefort?”

  “None,” said Madame Georges, shuddering, and in a low voice.

  “So much the better! We can no longer doubt but that the monster met his death in the attempt to escape from the—”

  Rodolph hesitated to pronounce the horrible word.

  “From the Bagne? Oh, say it! — the Bagne!” exclaimed the wretched woman with horror, and almost frantic as she spoke. “The father of my child! Ah! if the unhappy boy still lives — if, like me, he has not changed his name — oh, shame! shame! And yet it may be nothing: his father has, perhaps, carried out his horrid threat! What has he done with my boy? Why did he tear him from me?”

  “That mystery I cannot fathom,” said Rodolph, with a pensive air. “What could induce the wretch to carry off your son fifteen years ago, and when he was trying to escape into a foreign land? A child of that age could only embarrass his flight.”

  “Alas, M. Rodolph! when my husband” (the poor woman shuddered as she pronounced the word) “was arrested on the frontier and thrown into prison, where I was allowed to visit him, he said to me these horrible words: ‘I took away the brat because you were fond of him, and it will be a means of compelling you to send me money, which may or may not be of service to him, — that’s my affair. Whether he lives or dies it is no matter to you; but if he lives, he will be in good hands: you shall drink as deep of the shame of the son as you have of the disgrace of the father!’ Alas! a month afterwards my husband was condemned to the galleys for life; and since then all my entreaties, my prayers, and letters have been in vain. I have never been able to learn the fate of my boy. Ah, M. Rodolph! where is my child at this moment? These frightful words are always ringing in my ears: ‘You shall drink as deep of the shame of the son as you have of the disgrace of the father!’”

  “This atrocity is most inexplicable; why should he demoralise the unhappy child? Why carry him off?”

  “I have told you, M. Rodolph, — to compel me to send him money; although he had nearly ruined me, yet I had still some small resources, but they at length were exhausted also. In spite of his wickedness, I could not believe but that he would employ, at least, a portion of this money in the bringing-up of this unhappy child.”

  “And your son had no sign, no mark, by which he could be recognised?”

  “No other than that of which I have spoken to you, M. Rodolph, — a small Saint Esprit, sculptured in lapis lazuli, tied round his neck by a chain of silver: a sacred relic, blessed by the holy father.”

  “Courage, courage; God is all-powerful.”

  “Providence placed me in your path, M. Rodolph.”

  “Too late, Madame Georges; too late. I might have saved you many years of sorrow.”

  “Ah, M. Rodolph, how kind you have been to me!”

  “In what way? I bought this farm; in time of your prosperity you were not idle, and now you have become my manager here, where — thanks to your excellent superintendence, intelligence, and activity — this establishment produces me—”

  “Produces you, my lord?” said Madame Georges, interrupting Rodolph; “why, all the returns are employed, not only in ameliorating the condition of the labourers, who consider the occupation on this model farm as a great favour, but, moreover, to succour all the needy in the district; through the mediation of our good Abbé Laporte—”

  “Ah, the dear abbé!” said Rodolph, desirous of escaping the praise of Madame Georges; “have you had the kindness to inform him of my arrival? I wish to recommend my protégée to him. He has had my letter?”

  “Mr. Murphy gave it to him when he came this morning.”

  “In that letter I told our good curé, in a few words, the history of this poor girl. I was not sure that I should be able to come to-day myself, and if not, then Murphy would have conducted Marie—”

  A labourer of the farm interrupted this conversation, which had been carried on in the garden.

  “Madame, M. le Curé is waiting for you.”

  “Are the post-horses arrived, my lad?” inquired Rodolph.

  “Yes, M. Rodolph; and they are putting to.” And the man left the garden.

  Madame Georges, the curé, and the inhabitants of the farm only knew Fleur-de-Marie’s protector as M. Rodolph. Murphy’s discretion was faultless; and although when in private he was very precise in “my-lording” Rodolph, yet before strangers he was very careful not to address him otherwise than as M. Rodolph.

  “I forgot to mention, my dear Madame Georges,” said Rodolph, when he returned to the house, “that Marie has, I fear, very weak lungs, — privations and misery have tried her health. This morning early I was struck with the pallor of her countenance, although her cheeks were of a deep rose colour; her eyes, too, seem to me to have a brilliancy which betokens a feverish system. Great care must be taken of her.”

  “Rely on me, M. Rodolph; but, thank God! there is nothing serious to apprehend. At her age, in the country, with pure air, rest, and quiet, she will soon be quite restored.”

  “I hope so; but I will not trust to your country doctors. I will desire Murphy to bring here my medical man, — a negro, — a very skilful person, who will tell you the best regimen to pursue. You must send me news of Marie very often. Some time hence, when she shall be better, and more at ease, we will talk about her future life; perhaps i
t would be best that she always remained with you, if you were pleased with her.”

  “I should like it greatly, M. Rodolph; she would supply the place of the child I have lost, and must for ever bewail.”

  “Let us still hope for you and for her.”

  At the moment when Rodolph and Madame Georges approached the farm, Murphy and Marie also entered. The worthy gentleman let go the arm of Goualeuse, and said to Rodolph in a low voice, and with an air of some confusion:

  “This girl has bewitched me; I really do not know which interests me most, she or Madame Georges. I was a brute — a beast!”

  “I knew, old Murphy, that you would do justice to my protégée,” said Rodolph, smiling, and shaking hands with the squire.

  Madame Georges, leaning on Marie’s arm, entered with her into a small room on the ground floor, where the Abbé Laporte was waiting. Murphy went away, to see all ready for their departure. Madame Georges, Marie, Rodolph, and the curé remained together.

  Plain, but very comfortable, this small apartment was fitted up with green hangings, like the rest of the house, as had been exactly described to Goualeuse by Rodolph. A thick carpet covered the floor, a good fire burnt in the grate, and two large nosegays of daisies of all colours, placed in two crystal vases, shed their agreeable odour throughout the room. Through the windows, with their green blinds, which were half opened, was to be seen the meadow, the little stream, and, beyond it, the bank planted with chestnut-trees.

  The Abbé Laporte, who was seated near the fireplace, was upwards of eighty years of age, and had, ever since the last days of the Revolution, done duty in this small parish. Nothing can be imagined more venerable than his aged, withered, and somewhat melancholy countenance, shaded by long white locks, which fell on the collar of his black cassock, which was pieced in more places than one; the abbé liked better, as they said, to clothe one or two poor children in good warm broadcloth, than faire le muguet; that is, to wear his cassocks less than two or three years. The good abbé was so old, so very old, that his hands trembled continually, and when he occasionally lifted them up, when speaking, it might have been supposed that he was giving a benediction.

  “M. l’Abbé,” said Rodolph, respectfully, “Madame Georges has undertaken the guardianship of this young girl, for whom I also beg your kindness.”

  “She is entitled to it, sir, like all who come to us. The mercy of God is inexhaustible, my dear child, and he has evinced it in not abandoning you in most severe trials. I know all.” And he took the hand of Marie in his own withered and trembling palms. “The generous man who has saved you has realised the words of Holy Writ, ‘The Lord is near to all those who call upon him; he will fulfil the desire of those who fear him; he will hear their cries, and he will save them.’ Now deserve his bounty by your conduct, and you will always find one ready to encourage and sustain you in the good path on which you have entered. You will have in Madame Georges a constant example, in me a careful adviser. The Lord will finish his work.”

  “And I will pray to him for those who have had compassion on me and have led me to him, father,” said La Goualeuse, throwing herself on her knees before the priest. Her emotion overcame her; her sobs almost choked her. Madame Georges, Rodolph, and the abbé were all deeply affected.

  “Rise, my dear child,” said the curé; “you will soon deserve absolution from those serious faults of which you have rather been the victim than the criminal; for, in the words of the prophet, ‘The Lord raises up all those who are ready to fall, and elevates those who are oppressed.’”

  Murphy, at this moment, opened the door.

  “M. Rodolph,” he said, “the horses are ready.”

  “Adieu, father! adieu, Madame Georges! I commend your child to your care, — our child, I should say. Farewell, Marie; I will soon come and see you again.”

  The venerable pastor, leaning on the arms of Madame Georges and La Goualeuse, who supported his tottering steps, left the room to see Rodolph depart.

  The last rays of the sun shed their light on this interesting yet sad group:

  An old priest, the symbol of charity, pardon, and everlasting hope; a female, overwhelmed by every grief that can distress a wife and mother; a young girl, hardly out of her infancy, and but recently thrown into an abyss of vice through misery and the close contact with crime.

  Rodolph got into the carriage, Murphy took his place by his side, and the horses set off at speed.

  CHAPTER XII.

  THE RENDEZVOUS.

  THE DAY AFTER he had confided the Goualeuse to the care of Madame Georges, Rodolph, still dressed as a mechanic, was, at noon precisely, at the door of a cabaret with the sign of the Panier-Fleuri, not far from the barrier of Bercy.

  The evening before, at ten o’clock, the Chourineur was punctual to the appointment which Rodolph had fixed with him. The result of this narrative will inform our readers of the particulars of the meeting. It was twelve o’clock, and the rain fell in torrents; the Seine, swollen by perpetual falls of rain, had risen very high, and overflowed a part of the quay. Rodolph looked from time to time, with a gesture of impatience, towards the barrier, and at last observed a man and woman, who were coming towards him under the shelter of an umbrella, and whom he recognised as the Chouette and the Schoolmaster.

  These two individuals were completely metamorphosed. The ruffian had laid aside his ragged garments and his air of brutal ferocity. He wore a long frock coat of green cloth, and a round hat; whilst his shirt and cravat were remarkable for their whiteness. But for the hideousness of his features and the fierce glance of his eyes, always restless and suspicious, this fellow might have been taken, by his quiet and steady step, for an honest citizen.

  The Chouette was also in her Sunday costume, wearing a large shawl of fine wool, with a large pattern, and held in her hand a capacious basket.

  The rain having ceased for the moment, Rodolph, overcoming a sensation of disgust, went to meet the frightful pair. For the slang of the tapis-franc the Schoolmaster now substituted a style almost polished, and which betokened a cultivated mind, in strange contrast with his real character and crimes. When Rodolph approached, the brigand made him a polite bow, and the Chouette curtseyed respectfully.

  “Sir, your humble servant,” said the Schoolmaster. “I am delighted to pay my respects to you — delighted — or, rather, to renew our acquaintance; for the night before last you paid me two blows of the fist which were enough to have felled a rhinoceros. But not a word of that now; it was a joke on your part, I am sure, — merely done in jest. Let us not say another word about it, for serious business brings us now together. I saw the Chourineur yesterday, about eleven o’clock, at the tapis-franc, and appointed to meet him here to-day, in case he chose to join us, — to be our fellow labourer; but it seems that he most decidedly refuses.”

  “You, then, accept the proposal?”

  “Your name, sir, if you be so good?”

  “Rodolph.”

  “M. Rodolph, we will go into the Panier-Fleuri, — neither myself nor madame has breakfasted, — and we will talk over our little matters whilst we are taking a crust.”

  “Most willingly.”

  “We can talk as we go on. You and the Chourineur certainly do owe some satisfaction to my wife and myself, — you have caused us to lose more than two thousand francs. Chouette had a meeting near St. Ouen with the tall gentleman in mourning, who came to ask for you at the tapis-franc. He offered us two thousand francs to do something to you. The Chourineur has told me all about this. But, Finette,” said the fellow, “go and select a room at the Panier-Fleuri, and order breakfast, — some cutlets, a piece of veal, a salad, and a couple of bottles of vin de beaune, the best quality, — and we will join you there.”

  The Chouette, who had not taken her eye off Rodolph for a moment, went off after exchanging looks with the Schoolmaster, who then said:

  “I say, M. Rodolph, that the Chourineur has edified me on the subject of the two thousand francs.”

/>   “What do you mean by edified you?”

  “You are right, — the language is a little too refined for you. I would say that the Chourineur nearly told me all that the tall gentleman in mourning, with his two thousand francs, required.”

  “Good.”

  “Not so good, young man; for the Chourineur, having yesterday morning met the Chouette, near St. Ouen, did not leave her for one moment, when the tall gentleman in mourning came up, so that he could not approach and converse with her. You, then, ought to put us in the way of regaining our two thousand francs.”

  “Nothing easier; but let us ‘hark back.’ I had proposed a glorious job to the Chourineur, which he at first accepted, but afterwards refused to go on with.”

  “He always had very peculiar ideas.”

  “But whilst he refused he observed to me—”

  “He made you observe—”

  “Oh, diable! You are very grand with your grammar.”

  “It is my profession, as a schoolmaster.”

  “He made me, then, observe, that if he would not go on this ‘lay,’ he did not desire to discourage any other person, and that you would willingly lend a hand in the affair.”

  “May I, without impertinence, ask why you appointed a meeting with the Chourineur at St. Ouen yesterday, which gave him the advantage of meeting the Chouette? He was too much puzzled at my question to give me a clear answer.”

  Rodolph bit his lips imperceptibly, and replied, shrugging his shoulders:

  “Very likely; for I only told him half my plan, you must know, not knowing if he had made up his mind.”

  “That was very proper.”

  “The more so as I had two strings to my bow.”

  “You are a careful man. You met the Chourineur, then, at St. Ouen, for—”

  Rodolph, after a moment’s hesitation, had the good luck to think of a story which would account for the want of address which the Chourineur had displayed, and said:

  “Why, this it is. The attempt I propose is a famous one, because the person in question is in the country; all my fear was that he should return to Paris. To make sure, I went to Pierrefitte, where his country-house is situated, and there I learned that he would not be back again until the day after to-morrow.”