Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “It will still be that infernal Martial’s fault, if these children behave in this outrageous manner to us,” said Nicholas.

  “Nothing has been heard in his room since this morning,” said the widow, with a pensive air, and she shuddered, “nothing!”

  “That’s a sign, mother, that you were right to say to Père Férot, the fisherman at Asnières, that Martial had been so dangerously ill as to be confined to his bed for the last two days; for now, when all is known, it will not astonish anybody.”

  After a moment’s silence, as and if she wished to escape a painful thought, the widow replied, suddenly:

  “Didn’t the Chouette come here whilst I was at Asnières?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “Why didn’t she stay and accompany us to Bras-Rouge’s? I mistrust her.”

  “Bah! You mistrust everybody, mother; you are always fancying they are going to play you some trick. To-day it is the Chouette, yesterday it was Bras-Rouge.”

  “Bras-Rouge is at liberty, — my son is at Toulon, yet they committed the same robbery.”

  “You are always saying this. Bras-Rouge escaped because he is as cunning as a fox — that’s it; the Chouette did not stay, because she had an appointment at two o’clock, near the Observatory, with the tall man in black, at whose desire she has carried off this young country girl, by the help of the Schoolmaster and Tortillard; and Barbillon drove the hackney-coach which the tall man in black had hired for the job. So how, mother, do you suppose the Chouette would inform against us, when she tells us the ‘jobs’ she has in hand, and we do not tell her ours? for she knows nothing of this drowning job that is to come off directly. Be easy, mother; wolves don’t eat each other, and this will be a good day’s work; and when I recollect, too, that the jewel-matcher has often about her twenty to thirty thousand francs’ worth of diamonds in her bag, and that, in less than two hours, we shall have her in Bras-Rouge’s cellar! Thirty thousand francs’ worth of diamonds, mother! Think of that!”

  “And, whilst we lay hands on this woman, Bras-Rouge is to remain outside the cabaret?” inquired the widow, with an air of suspicion.

  “Well, and where would you have him, I should like to know? If any one comes to his house, mustn’t he be outside the door to answer them, and prevent them from entering the place whilst we are doing our ‘job?’”

  “Nicholas! Nicholas!” cried Calabash, at this moment from outside, “here come the two women!”

  “Quick, quick, mother! Your shawl! I will land you on the other side, and that will be so much done,” said Nicholas.

  The widow had replaced her mourning head-dress with a high black cap, in which she now made her appearance. At the instigation of Nicholas, she wrapped herself in a large plaid shawl, with gray and white checks; and, after having carefully closed and secured the kitchen door, she placed the key behind one of the window-shutters on the ground-floor, and followed her son, who was hastily pursuing his way to the landing-place. Almost involuntarily, as she quitted the island, she cast a long and meditative look at Martial’s window; and the train of thought to which its firmly nailed and iron-bound exterior gave rise seemed, to judge by their effect, to be of a very mingled and complicated character, for she knitted her brows, pursed her lips, and then, after a sudden convulsive shudder, she murmured, in a low hesitating voice:

  “It is his own fault — it is his own fault!”

  “Nicholas, do you see them? Just down there, along the path, — a country girl and an old woman!” exclaimed Calabash, pointing to the other side of the river, where Madame Séraphin and Fleur-de-Marie were descending a narrow, winding path which passed by a high bank, on the top of which were the lime-kilns.

  “Let us wait for the signal; don’t let us spoil the job by too much haste,” said Nicholas.

  “What! Are you blind? Don’t you recognise the stout woman who came the day before yesterday? Look at her orange shawl; and the little country girl, what a hurry she seems in! She’s a good little thing, I know; and it’s plain she has no idea of what is going to happen to her, or she wouldn’t hasten on at that pace, I’m thinking.”

  “Yes, I recollect the stout woman now. It’s all right, then — all right! Although they are so much behind the time I had almost given up the job as bad. But let us quite understand the thing, Calabash. I shall take the old woman and the young girl in the boat with a valve to it; you will follow me close on, stern to stern; and mind and row steadily, so that, with one spring, I may jump from one boat to the other, as soon as I have opened the pipe and the water begins to sink the boat.”

  “Don’t be afraid about me, it is not the first time I’ve pulled a boat, is it?”

  “I am not afraid of being drowned, you know I can swim; but, if I did not jump well into the other boat, why, the women, in their struggles against drowning, might catch hold of me and — much obliged to you, but I have no fancy for a bath with the two ladies.”

  “The old woman waves her handkerchief,” said Calabash; “there they are on the bank.”

  “Come, come along, mother, let’s push off,” said Nicholas, unmooring. “Come you into the boat with the valve, then the two women will not have any fear; and you, Calabash, jump into t’other, and use your arms, my girl, and pull a good one. Ah, by the way, take the boat-hook and put it beside you, it is as sharp as a lance, and it may be useful,” added the ruffian, as he placed beside Calabash in the boat a long hook with a sharp iron point.

  A few moments, and the two boats, one rowed by Nicholas and the other by Calabash, reached the shore where, for some moments, Madame Séraphin and Fleur-de-Marie had been waiting. Whilst Nicholas was fastening his boat to a post on the bank, Madame Séraphin approached him, and said, in a low and rapid tone:

  “Say that Madame Georges is waiting for us at the island, — you understand?” And then, in a louder voice, she added, “We are rather late, my lad.”

  “Yes, my good lady, Madame Georges has been asking for you several times.”

  “You see, my dear young lady, Madame Georges is waiting for us,” said Madame Séraphin, turning to Fleur-de-Marie, who, in spite of her confidence, had felt considerable repugnance at the sight of the sinister countenances of Calabash, Nicholas, and the widow; but the mention of Madame Georges reassured her, and she replied:

  “I am just as impatient to see Madame Georges; fortunately, it is not a long way across.”

  “How delighted the dear lady will be!” said Madame Séraphin. Then, addressing Nicholas, “Now, then, my lad, bring your boat a little closer that we may get in.” Adding, in an undertone, “The girl must be drowned, mind; if she comes up thrust her back again into the water.”

  “All right, ma’am; and don’t be alarmed yourself, but, when I make you the signal, give me your hand, she’ll then pass under all alone, for everything’s ready, and you have nothing to fear,” replied Nicholas, in a similar tone; and then, with savage brutality, unmoved by Fleur-de-Marie’s youth and beauty, he put his hand out to her. The young girl leaned lightly on him and entered the boat.

  “Now you, my good lady,” said Nicholas to Madame Séraphin, offering her his hand in turn.

  Was it presentiment, or mistrust, or only fear that she could not spring quickly enough out of the little bark in which Nicholas and the Goualeuse were, that made Jacques Ferrand’s housekeeper say to Nicholas, shrinking back, “No, I’ll go in the boat with mademoiselle?” And she took her seat by Calabash.

  “Just as you please,” said Nicholas, exchanging an expressive look with his sister as, with a vigorous thrust with his oar, he drove his boat from the bank.

  His sister did the same directly Madame Séraphin was seated beside her. Standing, looking fixedly on the bank, indifferent to the scene, the widow, pensive and absorbed, fixed her look obstinately on Martial’s window, which was discernible from the landing-place through the poplars. During this time the two boats, in the first of which were Nicholas and Fleur-de-Marie and in the other Calabash and Madame
Séraphin, left the bank slowly.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING.

  BEFORE THE READER is made acquainted with the dénouement of the drama then passing in Nicholas’s boat, we shall beg leave to retrace our steps.

  Shortly after Fleur-de-Marie had quitted St. Lazare in company of Madame Séraphin, La Louve also left that prison. Thanks to the recommendations of Madame Armand and the governor, who were desirous of recompensing her for her kindness towards Mont Saint-Jean, the few remaining days the beloved of Martial had still to remain in confinement were remitted her. A complete change had come over this hitherto depraved, degraded, and intractable being. Forever brooding over the description of the peaceful, wild, and retired life, so beautifully depictured by Fleur-de-Marie, La Louve entertained the utmost horror and disgust of her past life. To bury herself with Martial in the deep shades of some vast forest, such was her waking and dreaming thought, — the one fixed idea of her existence, against which all her former evil inclinations had in vain struggled when, separating herself from La Goualeuse, whose growing influence she feared, this singular creature had retired to another part of St. Lazare.

  To complete this sincere though rapid conversion, still more assured by the ineffectual resistance attempted by the perverse and froward habits of her companion, Fleur-de-Marie, following the dictates of her own natural good sense, had thus reasoned:

  “La Louve, a violent and determined creature, is passionately fond of Martial. She would, then, hail with delight the means of quitting the disgraceful life she now, for the first time, views with shame and disgust, for the purpose of entirely devoting herself to the rude, unpolished man whose taste she so entirely partakes of, and who seeks to hide himself from the world, as much from inclination as from a desire of escaping from the universal reprobation in which his family is viewed.”

  Assisted by these small materials, gleaned during her conversation with La Louve, Fleur-de-Marie, in giving a right direction to the unbridled passion and restraining the daring hardihood of the reckless creature, had positively converted a lost, wretched being into an honest woman; for what could the most virtuous of her sex have desired more than to bestow her undivided affections on the man of her choice, to dwell with him in the silence and solitude of woods, where hard labour, privations and poverty, would all be cheerfully borne and shared for his dear sake, to whom her heart was given?

  And such was the constant, ardent prayer of La Louve. Relying on the assistance which Fleur-de-Marie had assured her of in the name of an unknown benefactor, La Louve determined to make her praiseworthy proposal to her lover, not, indeed, without the keen and bitter apprehension of being rejected by him, for La Goualeuse, while she brought her to blush for her past life, awakened her to a just sense also of her position as regarded Martial.

  Once at liberty, La Louve thought only of seeing “her man,” as she called him. He took exclusive possession of her mind; she had heard nothing of him for several days. In the hopes of meeting with him in the Isle du Ravageur, and with the determination of waiting there until he came, should she fail to find him at first, she paid the driver of a cabriolet liberally to conduct her with all speed to the bridge of Asnières, which she crossed about a quarter of an hour before Madame Séraphin and Fleur-de-Marie (they having walked from the barrier) had reached the banks of the river near the lime-kilns. As Martial did not present himself to ferry La Louve across to the Isle du Ravageur, she applied to an old fisherman, named Father Férot, who lived close by the bridge.

  It was about four o’clock in the day when a cabriolet stopped at the entrance of a small street in the village of Asnières. La Louve leaped from it at one bound, threw a five-franc piece to the driver, and proceeded with all haste to the dwelling of old Férot, the ferryman. La Louve, no longer dressed in her prison garb, wore a gown of dark green merino, a red imitation of cashmere shawl with large, flaming pattern, and a net cap trimmed with riband; her thick, curly hair was scarcely smoothed out, her impatient longing to see Martial having rendered an ordinary attention to her toilet quite impossible. Any other female would, after so long a separation, have exerted her very utmost to appear becomingly adorned at her first interview with her lover; but La Louve knew little and cared less for all these coquettish arts, which ill accorded with her excitable nature. Her first, her predominating desire was to see “her man” as quickly as possible, and this impetuous wish was caused, not alone by the fervour of a love which, in minds as wild and unregulated as hers, sometimes leads on to madness, but also from a yearning to pour into the ear of Martial the virtuous resolutions she had formed, and to reveal to him the bright vista of happiness opened to both by her conversation with Fleur-de-Marie.

  The flying steps of La Louve soon conducted her to the fisherman’s cottage, and there, seated tranquilly before the door, she found Father Férot, an old, white-headed man, busily employed mending his nets. Even before she came close up to him, La Louve cried out:

  “Quick, quick, Father Férot! Your boat! Your boat!”

  “What! Is it you, my girl? Well, how are you? I have not seen you this long while.”

  “I know, I know; but where is your boat? and take me across to the isle as fast as you can row.”

  “My boat? Well to be sure! Now, how very unlucky! As if it was to be so. Bless you, my girl, it is quite out of my power to ferry you across to-day.”

  “But why? Why is it?”

  “Why, you see, my son has taken my boat to go up to the boat-races held at St. Ouen. Bless your heart, I don’t think there’s a boat left all along the river’s side.”

  “Distraction!” exclaimed La Louve, stamping her foot and clenching her hand. “Then all is lost; I shall not be able to see him!”

  “‘Pon my honour and word, it’s true, though,” said old Férot. “I am extremely sorry I am unable to ferry you over, because, no doubt, by your going on so, he is very much worse.”

  “Who is much worse? Who?”

  “Why, Martial!”

  “Martial!” exclaimed La Louve, snatching the sleeve of old Férot’s jacket, “My man ill?”

  “Bless me! Did you not know it?”

  “Martial? Do you mean Martial?”

  “To be sure I do; but don’t hold me so tight, you’ll tear my blouse. Now be quiet, there’s a good girl. I declare you frighten me, you stare about so wildly.”

  “Ill! Martial ill? And how long has he been so?”

  “Oh, two or three days.”

  “’Tis false! He would have written and told me of it, had it been so.”

  “Ah, but then, don’t you see? He’s been too bad to handle a pen.”

  “Too ill to write! And he is on the isle! Are you sure — quite sure he is there?”

  “Why, I’ll tell you. You must know, this morning, I meets the widow Martial. Now you are aware, my girl, that most, in general, when I notice her coming one way, I make it my business to go the other, for I am not particular fond of her, — I can’t say I am. So then—”

  “But my man — my man! Tell me of him!”

  “Wait a bit, — I’m coming to him. So when I found I couldn’t get away from the mother, and, to speak the honest truth, that woman makes me afraid to seem to slight her. She has a sort of an evil look about her, like one as could do you any manner of harm for only wishing for; I can’t account for it, I don’t know what it is, for I am not timorous by nature, but somehow the widow Martial does downright scare me. Well, says I, thinking just to say a few words and pass on, ‘I haven’t seen anything of your son Martial these last two or three days,’ says I, ‘I suppose he’s not with you just now?’ upon which she fixed her eyes upon me with such a look! ’Tis well they were not pistols, or they would have shot me, as folks say.”

  “You drive me wild! And then — and what said she?”

  Father Férot was silent for a minute or two, and then added:

  “Come, now, you are a right sort of a girl; if you will only promise me to
be secret, I will tell you all I know.”

  “Concerning my man?”

  “Ay, to be sure, for Martial is a good fellow, though somewhat thoughtless; and it would be a sore pity should any mischance befall him through that old wretch of a mother or his rascally brother!”

  “But what is going on? What have his mother or brother done? And where is he, eh? Speak, I tell you! Speak!”

  “Well, well, have a little patience! And, I say, do just let my blouse alone! Come, take your hands off, there’s a good girl; if you keep interrupting me, and tear my clothes in this way, I shall never be able to finish my story, and you will know nothing at last.”

  “Oh, how you try my patience!” exclaimed La Louve, stamping her foot with intense passion.

  “And you promise never to repeat a word of what I am about to tell you?”

  “No, no, I never will!”

  “Upon your word of honour?”

  “Father Férot, you will drive me mad!”

  “Oh, what a hot-headed girl it is! Well, now, then, this is what I have got to say; but, first and foremost, I must tell you that Martial is more than ever at variance with his family; and, if he were to get some foul play at their hands, I should not be at all surprised; and that makes me the more sorry my boat is not at hand to help you across the water, for, if you reckon upon either Nicholas or Calabash taking you over to the isle, why, you’ll just find yourself disappointed, that’s all.”

  “I know that as well as you do; but what did my man’s mother tell you? He was in the isle, then, when he fell ill, was he not?”