Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Fleur-de-Marie, though plunged young in an atmosphere 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 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 mystery, 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, husbands and wives.

  If we shudder at the fatal consequences of such necessity 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 accomplished: the Galleys or the Bridewell, each sex has its destiny.

  We do not 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 government! This is true. There is a bureau where she is registered, certificated, and signs her name. A bureau 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 Mœurs” (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 incalculable 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 gossiped enough; but it is no matter, as it is the last time we shall talk 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?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ma foi! I never built any.”

  “Let me build one for you and Martial.”

  “Bah! What’s the use of it?”

  “To pass away time.”

  “Well, let’s have your castle in the air.”

  “Well, then, only imagine that a lucky chance, such as sometimes occurs, brings you in contact with a person who says, ‘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—’”

  “Become what?”

  “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, ‘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.

  “Do you think he would have me for his wife?”

  “Except poaching, he has never committed any guilty act, has he?”

  “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?”

  “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.”

  “Yes, ma foi! it would be still to live in the woods.”

  “Only he would not have the situation but on condition 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 husband, 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.”

  “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 foi! 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 the Bouqueval farm. La Louve did not attempt to conceal 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 flatters 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 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 children 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 mechanically, who became more and more forgetful of the reality, and almost believed she saw before her the smiling 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 everything 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 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 tending 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 calmness of a fine evening, to breathe the sweet odour of the 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 oppressed, “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 Fleur-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 phenomenon 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 domesti
c hearth, gilded by some joyful sunbeams, refreshed by the breeze of the great woods, or perfumed by the odour of wild flowers, — this narrative 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 indefatigable 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 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 threatening, in their monotonous and menacing orations, all human vengeances — all divine thunders?