Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  The ancestor of the Martial family who first established himself on this islet, on payment of a moderate rent, was a ravageur (a river-scavenger). The ravageurs, as well as the débardeurs and déchireurs of boats, remain nearly the whole of the day plunged in water up to the waist in the exercise of their trade. The débardeurs bring ashore the floating wood. The déchireurs 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 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 Ile 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-house keeper, fisherman, and letter of boats. The felon’s widow continued to keep the house, and reprobates, vagrants, escaped convicts, wandering wild-beast showmen, 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 Barbillon in the murder of the jewel-matcher, was in appearance a ravageur, but really a freshwater pirate in the Seine and its banks. François, 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, nicknamed 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 outline 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 unpleasantly with the gusts of the wind in the branches 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 earthenware; 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.

  François, the youngest of the Martial sons, was sitting on a low stool repairing an aldrel, a thin-meshed net forbidden to be used on the Seine. In spite of the tan of his features, this boy seemed in perfect health; a forest of red hair covered his head; his face was round, his lips thick, his forehead projecting, his eyes quick and piercing. He was not like his mother or his elder sister, but had a subdued and sly look, as from time to time, through the thick mass of hair that fell over his eyes, he threw a stealthy and fearful glance at his mother, or exchanged a look of intelligence and affection with his little sister, Amandine.

  The latter was seated beside her brother, and was occupied, not in marking, but in unmarking, some linen stolen on the previous evening. She was nine years old, and was as like her brother as her sister was like her mother. Her features, without being more regular, were less coarse than those of François. 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 François 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 victims. 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 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 c
omplete 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.

  “François, 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.

  François murmured some unintelligible words, but did not stir.

  “Do you hear me, François?” 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 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, François?” 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 punishment which the widow pitilessly inflicted. Amandine, without being observed, gently touched her brother’s elbow, to make him quietly do what Calabash desired. François 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 chastisement, and handed it to her mother. François 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?” exclaimed Calabash.

  The widow, still holding the willow stick in her hand, pinching her pale lips together more and more, looked at François 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 overspread her neck, it was easy to see that the child, although 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 François, 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.

  “I am — afraid of the wood-pile — I—” answered the boy, shuddering as he spoke.

  “Afraid — you stupid! And of what?”

  François 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 François, 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 François.

  “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.”

  “And, of course, you told your brother, your dear friend Martial, of your grand discovery, didn’t you?” asked Calabash, with brutal irony.

  François 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 François, 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 habitually 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 staircase 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 descended. 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.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE FRESHWATER PIRATE.

  AFTER A SILENCE of several minutes, the criminal’s widow said to her daughter:

  “Go and get some wood; we will set the wood-pile to rights when Nicholas and Martial return home this evening.”

  “Martial! Do you mean to tell him also that—”

  “The wood, I say!” repeated the widow, abruptly interrupting her daughter, who, accustomed to yield to the imperious and iron rule of her mother, lighted a lantern, and went out.

  During the preceding scene, Amandine, deeply disquieted concerning the fate of François, 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 utterance 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 emotion 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 experienced 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 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 returned 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. 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 offhand way with her; she would neither give any explanation 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, addressing the child, she said, “What do folks mean when they talk of filching?”

  “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 indifference.

  “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 addressing Amandine.