Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Courage! Courage! I will think of you, as you will remember me.”

  “Oh, as to that, they may tear me to pieces before they shall ever make me forget you! I may grow old, — as old as the streets, — but I shall always have your angel face before me. The first word I will teach my child shall be your name, Goualeuse; for but for you it would have perished with cold.”

  “Listen to me, Mont Saint-Jean!” said Fleur-de-Marie, deeply affected by the attachment of this unhappy woman. “I cannot promise to do anything for you, although I know some very charitable persons; but, for your child, it is a different thing; it is wholly innocent; and the persons of whom I speak will, perhaps, take charge of it, and bring it up, when you can resolve on parting from it.”

  “Part from it! Never, oh, never!” exclaimed Mont Saint-Jean, with excitement. “What would become of me now, when I have so built upon it?”

  “But how will you bring it up? Boy or girl, it ought to be made honest; and for that—”

  “It must eat honest bread. I know that, Goualeuse, — I believe it. It is my ambition; and I say so to myself every day. So, in leaving here, I will never put my foot under a bridge again. I will turn rag-picker, street-sweeper, — something honest; for I owe that, if not to myself, at least to my child, when I have the honour of having one,” she added, with a sort of pride.

  “And who will take care of your child whilst you are at work?” inquired the Goualeuse. “Will it not be better, if possible, as I hope it will be, to put it in the country with some worthy people, who will make a good country girl or a stout farmer’s boy of it? You can come and see it from time to time; and one day you may, perhaps, find the means to live near it constantly. In the country, one lives on so little!”

  “Yes, but to separate myself from it, — to separate myself from it! It would be my only joy, — I, who have nothing else in the world to love, — nothing that loves me!”

  “You must think more of it than of yourself, my poor Mont Saint-Jean. In two or three days I will write to Madame Armand, and if the application I mean to make in favour of your child should succeed, you will have no occasion to say to it, as you said so painfully just now, ‘Alas! What will become of it?’”

  Madame Armand interrupted this conversation, and came to seek Fleur-de-Marie. After having again burst into sobs, and bathed with her despairing tears the young girl’s hands, Mont Saint-Jean fell on the seat perfectly overcome, not even thinking of the promise which Fleur-de-Marie had just made with respect to her child.

  “Poor creature!” said Madame Armand, as she quitted the yard, accompanied by Fleur-de-Marie, “her gratitude towards you gives me a better opinion of her.”

  Learning that La Goualeuse was discharged, the other prisoners, far from envying her this favour, displayed their delight. Some of them surrounded Fleur-de-Marie, and took leave of her with adieux full of cordiality, frankly congratulating her on her speedy release from prison.

  “Well, I must say,” said one, “this little fair girl has made us pass an agreeable moment, when we agreed to make up the basket of clothes for Mont Saint-Jean. That will be remembered at St. Lazare.”

  When Fleur-de-Marie had quitted the prison buildings, the inspectress said to her:

  “Now, my dear child, go to the clothing-room, and leave your prison clothes. Put on your peasant girl’s clothes, whose rustic simplicity suits you so well. Adieu! You will be happy, for you are going to be under the protection of good people, and leave these walls, never again to return to them. But I am really hardly reasonable,” said Madame Armand, whose eyes were moistened with tears. “I really cannot conceal from you how much I am attached to you, my poor girl!” Then, seeing the tears in Fleur-de-Marie’s eyes, the inspectress added, “But we must not sadden your departure thus.”

  “Ah, madame, is it not through your recommendation that this young lady to whom I owe my liberty has become interested in me?”

  “Yes, and I am happy that I did so; my presentiments had not deceived me.”

  At this moment a clock struck.

  “That is the hour of work; I must return to the rooms. Adieu! Once more adieu, my dear child!”

  Madame Armand, as much affected as Fleur-de-Marie, embraced her tenderly, and then said to one of the women employed in the establishment:

  “Take mademoiselle to the vestiary.”

  A quarter of an hour afterwards, Fleur-de-Marie, dressed like a peasant girl, as we have seen her at the farm at Bouqueval, entered the waiting-room, where Madame Séraphin was expecting her. The housekeeper of the notary, Jacques Ferrand, had come to seek the unhappy girl, and conduct her to the Isle du Ravageur.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  RECOLLECTIONS.

  JACQUES FERRAND HAD quickly and readily obtained the liberty of Fleur-de-Marie, which, indeed, only required a simple official order. Instructed by the Chouette of La Goualeuse being at St. Lazare, he had immediately applied to one of his clients, an honourable and influential man, saying that a young female who had once erred, but afterwards sincerely repented, being now confined in St. Lazare, was in danger of forgetting her good resolutions, in consequence of her association with the other prisoners. This young girl having been (added the notary) strongly recommended to him by persons of high respectability, who wanted to take care of her when she quitted the prison, he besought his client, in the name of religion, virtue, and the future return to goodness of the poor girl, to interest himself in obtaining her liberation. And, further to screen himself from all chance of future consequences, the notary most earnestly charged his client not to allow his name to transpire in the business on any account, as he was desirous of avoiding any mention of having been employed in the furtherance of so good and charitable a work.

  This request, which was attributed to the unassuming modesty and benevolence of Jacques Ferrand, a man equally esteemed for his piety as for honour and probity, was strictly complied with, the liberation of Fleur-de-Marie being asked and obtained in the client’s name alone; and by way of evincing a still greater regard for the shrinking delicacy of the notary’s nature, the order for quitting the prison was sent under cover to Jacques Ferrand, that he might send it on to the parties interesting themselves for the young girl. And when Madame Séraphin presented the order to the directors of the prison, she stated herself to have been sent by the parties feeling a desire to save the young person it referred to.

  From the favourable manner in which the matron of the prison had spoken to Madame d’Harville of Fleur-de-Marie, not a doubt existed as to its being to that lady La Goualeuse was indebted for her return to freedom. There was, therefore, no chance of the appearance of Madame Séraphin exciting any mistrust in the mind of her victim. Madame Séraphin could so well assume the look and manner of what is commonly styled “a nice motherly kind of person,” that it required a more than ordinary share of penetration to discover a strong proportion of falsehood, deceit, and cunning behind the smooth glance or the hypocritical smile; but, spite of the hardened villainy with which she had shared so long and deeply in the nefarious practices of her employer, Madame Séraphin, old and hackneyed as she was, could not view without emotion the exquisite loveliness of the being her own hand had surrendered, even as a child, to the cruel care of the Chouette, and whom she was now leading to an inevitable death.

  “Well, my dear,” cried Madame Séraphin, speaking in a tone of honeyed sweetness, as Fleur-de-Marie drew near, “I suppose you are very glad to get away from prison.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, ma’am. I presume it is Madame d’Harville who has had the goodness to obtain my liberty for me?”

  “You are not mistaken in your guess. But, come, we are already a little behindhand, and we have still some distance to go.”

  “We are going to Madame Georges at the farm at Bouqueval, are we not, madame?” cried La Goualeuse.

  “Oh, yes, certainly, by all means!” answered the femme de charge, in order to avert all suspicion from the mind of her victim. “Yes,
my dear, we are going into the country, as you say;” and then added, with a sort of good-humoured teasing, “But that is not all; before you see Madame Georges, a little surprise awaits you — Come, come, our coach is waiting below! Ah, how you will be astonished by and by! Come, then, let us go. Your most obedient servant, gentlemen!”

  And, with a multitude of bows and salutations from Madame Séraphin to the registrar, his clerk, and all the various members of the establishment then and there assembled, she descended the stairs with La Goualeuse, followed by an officer, to command the opening of the gates through which they had to pass. The last had just closed behind them, and the two females found themselves beneath the vast porch which looks out upon the street of the Faubourg St. Denis, when they nearly ran against a young female, who appeared hurrying towards the prison, as though full of anxiety to visit one of its inmates. It was Rigolette, as pretty and light-footed as ever, her charming face set off by a simple yet becoming cap, tastefully ornamented with cherry-coloured riband; while her dark brown hair was laid in bright glossy bands down each clear and finely rounded cheek. She was wrapped in a plaid shawl, over which fell a snowy muslin collar, secured by a small knot of riband. On her arm she carried a straw basket; while, thanks to her light, careful way of picking her steps, her thick-soled boots were scarcely soiled; and yet the poor girl had walked far that day.

  “Rigolette!” exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, as she recognised her old prison companion, and the sharer in her rural excursions.

  The reader will, perhaps, recollect that in the recital made by La Goualeuse to Rodolph, at their first meeting at the ogress’s, of the early events of her life, she spoke to him of Rigolette, who, a friendless child like herself, had been (with her) confined in a maison de detention until she had reached the age of sixteen.

  “La Goualeuse!” returned the grisette, and with one accord the two girls threw themselves into each other’s arms.

  Nothing more touchingly beautiful could be imagined than the contrast between these two young creatures, both so lovely, though differing so entirely from one another in appearance: the one exquisitely fair, with large, melancholy blue eyes, and an outline of feature of faultless purity, the pale, pensive, intellectual cast of the whole countenance reminding the observer of one of those sweet designs of a village maid by Greuze, — the same clear delicacy of complexion, the same ineffable mixture of graceful pensiveness and candid innocence; the other a sparkling brunette, with round rosy cheek and bright black eyes, set off by a laughing, dimpled face and mirthful air, — the very impersonation of youthful gaiety and light-heartedness, the rare and touching specimen of happy poverty, of contented labour, and honest industry!

  After the first burst of their affectionate greetings had passed away, the two girls regarded each other with close and tender scrutiny. The features of Rigolette were radiant with the joy she experienced at this unexpected meeting; Fleur-de-Marie, on the contrary, felt humbled and confused at the sight of her early friend, which recalled but too vividly to her mind the few days of peaceful calm she had known previous to her first degradation.

  “Dear, dear Goualeuse!” exclaimed the grisette, fixing her bright eyes with intense delight on her companion. “To think of meeting you at last, after so long an absence!”

  “It is, indeed, a delightful surprise!” replied Fleur-de-Marie. “It is so very long since we have seen each other.”

  “Ah, but now,” said Rigolette, for the first time remarking the rustic habiliments of La Goualeuse, “I can account for seeing nothing of you during the last six months, — you live in the country, I see?”

  “Yes,” answered Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes, “I have done so for some time past.”

  “And I suppose that, like me, you have come to see some friend in this prison?”

  “Yes,” stammered poor Fleur-de-Marie, blushing up to her eyes with shame and confusion; “I was going — I mean I have just been seeing some one, and, of course, am now returning home.”

  “You live a good way out of Paris, I dare say? Ah, you dear, kind girl! It is just like you to come all this distance to perform a good action. Do you remember the poor lying-in woman to whom you gave, not only your mattress, with the necessary baby-clothes, but even what money you had left, and which we meant to have spent in a country excursion; for you were then crazy for the country, my pretty village maid?”

  “And you, who cared nothing about it, how very good-natured and obliging of you to go thither, merely for the sake of pleasing me!”

  “Well, but I pleased myself at the same time. Why, you, who were always inclined to be grave and serious, when once you got among the fields, or found yourself in the thick shade of a wood, oh, then, what a wild, overjoyed little madcap you became! Nobody would have fancied it the same person, — flying after the butterflies, — crowding your hands and apron with more flowers than either could hold. It made me quite delighted to see you! It was quite treat enough for a week to recollect all your happiness and enjoyment. But do let me have another look at you: how sweetly pretty you look in that nice little round cap! Yes, decidedly, you were cut out to be a country girl, — just as much as I was to be a Paris grisette. Well, I hope you are happy, since you have got the sort of line you prefer; and, certainly, after all, I cannot say I was so very much astonished at your never coming near me. ‘Oh,’ said I, ‘that dear Goualeuse is not suited for Paris; she is a true wild flower, as the song says; and the air of great cities is not for them. So,’ said I, ‘my pretty, dear Goualeuse has found a place in some good honest family who live in the country.’ And I was right, was I not, dear?”

  “Yes,” said Fleur-de-Marie, nearly sinking with confusion, “quite right.”

  “There is only one thing I have to reproach you for.”

  “Reproach me?” inquired Fleur-de-Marie, looking tearfully at her companion.

  “Yes, you ought to have let me know before you went. You should have said ‘good-bye,’ if you were only leaving me at night to return in the morning; or, at any rate, you should have sent me word how you were going on.”

  “I — I — quitted Paris so suddenly,” stammered out Fleur-de-Marie, becoming momentarily more and more embarrassed, “that, indeed — I — was not able—”

  “Oh, I’m not at all angry! I don’t speak of it to scold you! I am far too happy in meeting you unexpectedly; and, besides, I commend you for getting out of such a dangerous place as Paris, where it is so difficult to earn a quiet livelihood; for, you know, two poor friendless girls like you and me might be led into mischief, without thinking of, or intending, any harm. When there is no person to advise, it leaves one so very defenceless; and then come a parcel of deceitful, flattering men, with their false promises, when, perhaps, want and misery are staring you in the face. There, for instance, do you recollect that pretty girl called Julie? — and Rosine, who had such a beautiful fair skin, and such coal black eyes?”

  “Oh, yes, I recollect them very well!”

  “Then, my dear Goualeuse, you will be extremely sorry to hear that they were both led astray, seduced, and deserted, till at last, from one unfortunate step to another, they have become like the miserable creatures confined in this prison!”

  “Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, hanging down her head, and blushing the deep blush of shame.

  Rigolette, misinterpreting the real cause of her friend’s exclamation, continued:

  “I admit that their conduct is wrong, nay wicked; but then, you know, my dear Goualeuse, because you and I have been so fortunate as to preserve ourselves from harm, — you, because you have been living with good and virtuous people in the country, out of the reach of temptation; and I, because I had no time to waste in listening to a set of make-believe lovers; and also because I found greater pleasure in having a few birds, and in trying to get things a little comfortable and snug around me, — I say, it is not for you and me to be too severe with others; and God alone knows whether opportunity, deceit, and de
stitution may not have had much to do in causing the misery and disgrace of Julie and Rosine! And who can say whether, in their place, we might not have acted as they have done?”

  “Alas!” cried Fleur-de-Marie, “I accuse them not; on the contrary, I pity them from my heart!”

  “Come, come, my dear child!” interrupted Madame Séraphin, impatiently offering her arm to her victim, “you forget that I said we were already behind our time.”

  “Pray, madame, grant us a little more time,” said Rigolette. “It is so very long since I saw my dear Goualeuse!”

  “I should be glad to do so,” replied Madame Séraphin, much annoyed at this meeting between the two friends; “but it is now three o’clock, and we have a long way to go. However, I will manage to allow you ten minutes longer gossip. So pray make the best of your time.”

  “And tell me, I pray, of yourself,” said Fleur-de-Marie, affectionately pressing the hands of Rigolette between her own. “Are you still the same merry, light-hearted, and happy creature I always knew you?”

  “I was happy and gay enough a few days ago; but now—”

  “You sorrowful? I can hardly believe it.”

  “Ah, but indeed I am! Not that I am at all changed from what you always found me, — a regular Roger Bontemps, — one to whom nothing was a trouble. But then, you see, everybody is not like me; so that, when I see those I love unhappy, why, naturally, that makes me unhappy, too.”

  “Still the same kind, warm-hearted girl!”

  “Why, who could help being grieved as I am? Just imagine my having come hither to visit a poor young creature, — a sort of neighbouring lodger in the house where I live, — as meek and mild as a lamb she was, poor thing! Well, she has been most shamefully and unjustly accused, — that she has; never mind of what just now! Her name is Louise Morel. She is the daughter of an honest and deserving man, a lapidary, who has gone mad in consequence of her being put in prison.”