by Eugène Sue
“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 Asnières, while I managed to keep the man occupied 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 Martial 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 François against everything either you or I order them to do. Do you think this can last much longer?”
“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 Asnières, 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 complexion, 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 determined 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.’ ‘Then it is for me,’ said the old man; ‘here is my passport.’ 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 eagerness 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 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. Perhaps 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, 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 François, 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 François.
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 entertaining for him the affection she felt for her Toulon son, as she desig
nated him; for the maternal love of this ferocious woman appeared to increase in proportion to the criminality of her offspring. This perverse preference 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.
“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 alongside 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 François 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 François 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 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 illumined 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, François and Amandine seemed of all the party most impatient 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 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. Honoré, will take the rest of the swag.”
“Amandine,” whispered François 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 examining each article.
“Then, I’ll be sworn,” answered Nicholas, “if she’ll give that, the things are worth at least fifteen hundred 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 Calabash.
“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 taking 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 consider that, instead of calling out you should keep the 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 forthwith accepted the shawl without further scruple.
Nicholas appeared seized with a sudden fit of generosity
, 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 François, 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 ever give you beautiful silk handkerchiefs like those, I should be glad to know?”
François 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 François, 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, François, 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, François?” said Nicholas, brutally.
“Yes, brother,” replied François. 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?”
