by Eugène Sue
And with these pathetic words Alfred clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and threw himself back upon his bed.
“Oh, nonsense, you old duck!” cried Anastasie. “On the contrary, now the villain has gained his point and stolen your hair, he will let you alone for the future. He has no further cause to disturb and torment you.”
“Let me alone?” exclaimed M. Pipelet, with a convulsive spring upwards. “Oh, you know him not; he is insatiable. True, he has got the hair he so much desired to obtain; but who can say what he may further require of me?”
The appearance of Rigolette at the entrance to the lodge put a stop to the lamentations of M. Pipelet.
“Stay where you are, mademoiselle!” cried he, faithful to his habitual chaste delicacy. “Pray don’t think of coming in, for I am undressed and in bed!” So saying, he covered himself up almost to his eyes, while Rigolette, surprised and bewildered, remained at the threshold of the door.
“Oh, my pretty neighbour,” said Rodolph, pitying her confusion, “I was just coming up to speak with you. Can you wait for me one minute?” Then addressing Anastasie, he said, “Pray let nothing prevent your taking Cecily to Jacques Ferrand’s this evening.”
“Make yourself perfectly easy, my king of lodgers; at seven o’clock precisely she shall be duly placed there. Now that Morel’s wife is able to get about, I will ask her to mind the lodge for me while I am away; for, bless you, Alfred would not stay by himself, — not for a ‘varsal crown!”
The bright freshness of Rigolette’s complexion was daily fading away, while her once round, dimpled cheek had sunk and given place to a pale, careworn countenance, the usually gay, mirthful expression of which had changed into a grave, thoughtful cast, more serious and mournful still since her meeting with Fleur-de-Marie at the gate of St. Lazare.
“I am so glad to see you,” said Rigolette to Rodolph, when they were at a convenient distance from the lodge of Madame Pipelet. “I have so much to say to you; I have, indeed.”
“Well, then, first of all, tell me of yourself and your health. Let me look at this pretty face, and see whether it is as gay and blooming as usual. No, indeed. I declare you have grown quite pale and thin; I am sure you work too hard.”
“Oh, no, indeed, M. Rodolph, it is not that. On the contrary, my work does me good; it hinders me from thinking too much, for I am obliged to attend to what I am about. But it is grief, M. Rodolph, and nothing else, that has altered me so much. And how can I help it? Every time I see that poor Germain, I grieve more and more.”
“He is still as desponding as ever, then?”
“Oh, worse than ever, M. Rodolph. And what is the most distressing is, that, whatever I try to do to cheer him up, takes quite the contrary effect; it seems as though a spell hung over me!” And here the large, dark eyes of Rigolette were filled with tears.
“How do you know, my dear neighbour?”
“Why, only yesterday I went to see him, and to take him a book he was desirous of having; it was a romance we read together when we lived happily as near neighbours and dear friends. Well, directly he saw the book, he burst into tears; but that did not astonish me, — it seemed natural enough. Poor fellow! I dare say it brought back to his recollection those happy evenings when he used to sit beside the fire in my nice, pretty little room; while now he was in a horrid prison, the companion of vile and wicked men, who only jeered at his melancholy. Poor, dear Germain! It is very, very hard!”
“Take courage, my dear friend,” said Rodolph. “When Germain quits his prison, and his innocence is proved, he will find his mother and many dear friends, in whose society, as well as in yours, he will soon forget his present sufferings, as well as the hard trials he has undergone.”
“That’s all very pleasant when it arrives, but that won’t stop his tormenting himself till it does. But that is not all, neither.”
“What other uneasiness has he?”
“Why, he being the only innocent man among all the bad people there, they are always annoying and behaving ill to him, because he will not join in their idle and vicious amusements. The head turnkey, who is a very good sort of man, advised me to recommend Germain, for his own sake, not to keep himself at quite such a distance from his companions, but to try and familiarise himself with these bad men. However, it is no use trying; he cannot bring himself to endure their company or conversation. And I am constantly tormented with the dread that some of these days they will do him some harm out of spite.”
Then all at once interrupting herself, and drying her tears, Rigolette resumed:
“But, dear me, how selfish I am! I keep talking of my own concerns without ever recollecting to speak to you about the Goualeuse.”
“The Goualeuse!” exclaimed Rodolph, with surprise.
“I met her the day before yesterday, when I went to see Louise at St. Lazare.”
“The Goualeuse?”
“Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph.”
“At St. Lazare?”
“She was leaving the prison in company with an elderly female.”
“It cannot be,” exclaimed Rodolph, in extreme astonishment; “you must be mistaken.”
“I assure you it was herself, M. Rodolph.”
“You really must be in error.”
“Oh, no, I was not mistaken; although she was dressed as a country girl I recollected her again directly. She looked beautiful as ever, though pale; and she had just the same melancholy look she used to have.”
“How very strange that she should be in Paris without my having heard of it! I can scarcely credit it. And what had she been doing at St. Lazare?”
“I suppose, like myself, she had been to see some one confined there; but I had not time to ask her many questions, for the person who was with her seemed so very cross, and to be in such a hurry! Then it seems you know the Goualeuse as well as myself, M. Rodolph?”
“I do, certainly.”
“Oh, then, that settles the matter! And it must have been of you she spoke.”
“Of me?”
“Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph. For, you see, I was just mentioning to her what had happened to poor Louise and Germain, — both so good, yet so persecuted by that wicked Jacques Ferrand, — taking care to do as you bid me, and not say a word of your being interested in their welfare so then the Goualeuse told me if a generous person she knew were once acquainted with their hard fate, and how little they deserved it, he would be sure to assist them. And then I asked her the name of the person she alluded to, and she named you, M. Rodolph.”
“Oh, then, it was her, sure enough.”
“You can’t imagine how much surprised we both were at this discovery, either of resemblance or name; and before we parted we agreed to let each other know whether our M. Rodolph was one and the same. And it seems you are the very identical Rodolph both of La Goualeuse and myself. Are you not, neighbour?”
“I believe so; and I can, at least, assure you I take the greatest possible interest in the fate of this poor girl, — still I am much surprised to find, by what you say, that she is in Paris. And so great is my astonishment that, had you not so faithfully related your interview, I should have persisted in believing you were mistaken. But I must say good-bye for the present, — what you tell me respecting La Goualeuse obliges me to quit you. Be as careful as ever in not mentioning to any one that there are certain unknown friends watching over the welfare both of Louise and Germain, who will come forward at a right moment and see them safe through their troubles; it is more essential than ever that strict secrecy should be kept on this point. By the way, how are the Morel family getting on?”
“Oh, extremely well, M. Rodolph. The mother has quite got about again, and the children are daily improving. Ah, the whole family owe their life and happiness to you! You are so good and so generous to them.”
“And how is poor Morel himself? Does he get any better?”
“Oh, dear, yes; I heard of him yesterday, he seems from time to time to have some lucid moments, and ho
pes are entertained of his madness being curable. So be of good heart, neighbour, take care of yourself, and good-bye for the present.”
“But first tell me truly, are you quite sure you want for nothing? Are you still able to maintain yourself with the profits of your needle?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, M. Rodolph. I work rather later at night to make up for my lost time during the day. But it does not matter much, for if I go to bed I don’t sleep.”
“Poor, dear neighbour! Why, you have grown sadly out of spirits. I am afraid that Papa Crétu and Ramonette don’t sing much, if they wait for you to set them the example.”
“You are right enough, M. Rodolph, my birds have quite left off singing, as well as myself. Now I know you will laugh at me, but I’ll tell you what I firmly think and believe, — the poor little creatures are aware that I am dull and out of spirits, and instead of singing and warbling as if their little throats would burst for joy when they see me, they just give a little gentle twitter, as though they would not disturb me for the world, but would be so glad to console me if they had the power. It is very stupid of me to fancy such things, is it not, M. Rodolph?”
“Not at all! And I am quite sure that your affectionate friends the birds have observed your being less happy than usual.”
“Well, I’m sure I shouldn’t wonder! The poor, dear things are so very clever,” said Rigolette, innocently, delighted to find her own opinion as to the sagacity of her companions in solitude thus powerfully confirmed.
“Oh, I am quite sure about it, nothing is more intelligent than gratitude. But once more, good-bye, — I shall see you again soon, I hope, and by that time, I trust your pretty eyes will have grown brighter, your cheeks regained their usual roses, and your merry voice have recovered all its gaiety, till Papa Crétu and Ramonette will scarcely be able to keep up with you.”
“Heaven grant you may prove a true prophet, M. Rodolph!” said Rigolette, heaving a deep sigh. “But, good-bye, neighbour, don’t let me keep you.”
“Fare you well, for the present!”
Rodolph, wholly at a loss to understand why Madame Georges should have brought or sent Fleur-de-Marie to Paris without giving him the least intimation of her intention, hastened home for the purpose of despatching a special messenger to the farm at Bouqueval.
Just as he entered the Rue Plumet he observed a travelling carriage drawn up before the entrance of his hotel. The vehicle contained Murphy, who had that instant returned from Normandy, whither he had gone, as the reader is already aware, to counteract the base schemes of the stepmother of Madame d’Harville and her infamous confederate, Bradamanti.
CHAPTER II.
MURPHY AND POLIDORI.
SIR WALTER MURPHY’S features were beaming with satisfaction. When he alighted from the carriage he gave a brace of pistols to one of the prince’s servants, took off his long travelling coat, and, without giving himself time to change his clothes, followed Rodolph, who impatiently had preceded him to his apartment.
“Good news, monseigneur! Good news!” exclaimed the squire, when he was alone with Rodolph; “the wretches are unmasked, M. d’Orbigny is saved. You despatched me just in time; one hour later and another crime would have been committed.”
“And Madame d’Harville?”
“Is overjoyed at having again acquired her father’s affection; and full of happiness at having arrived, thanks to your advice, in time to snatch him from certain death.”
“So, then, Polidori—”
“Was, in this instance, the worthy accomplice of Madame d’Harville’s stepmother. But what a wretch is this stepmother! What sang-froid! What audacity! And this Polidori! Ah, monseigneur, you have frequently desired to thank me for what you call my proofs of devotion.”
“I have always said proofs of friendship, my dear Murphy.”
“Well, monseigneur, never — no, never — has this friendship been exposed to a severer trial than in this present case!” said the squire, with an air half serious, half pleasant.
“What mean you?”
“The disguises of the coalman, the peregrinations in the Cité, and all that sort of thing, they have been as nothing, actually nothing, when compared with the journey I have just made with that infernal Polidori.”
“What do you mean? Polidori?”
“I have brought him back with me.”
“With you?”
“With me: judge what company! During twelve hours side by side with the man I most despise and hate in the world, — I’d as soon travel with a serpent — any beast of antipathy!”
“And where is Polidori now?”
“In the house in the Allée des Veuves, under good and safe guard.”
“Then he made no resistance to following you?”
“None. I offered him the choice between being apprehended at once by the French authorities, or being my prisoner in the Allée des Veuves, — he didn’t hesitate for an instant.”
“You are right; it is best to have him thus in our grasp. You are worth your weight in gold, my dear old Murphy. But tell me all about your journey; I am impatient to know how this shameless woman, and her equally shameless accomplice, were at last unmasked.”
“Nothing could be more simple. I had only to follow the letter of your instructions in order to terrify and crush these wretches. Under these circumstances, monseigneur, you have served, as you always do, persons of worth, and punished the wicked, noble preserver that you are!”
“Sir Walter! Sir Walter! Do you recollect the flatteries of the Baron de Graün?” said Rodolph, smiling.
“Well, then, monseigneur, I will begin, — or, perhaps, you would prefer first reading this letter of the Marquise d’Harville’s, which will inform you on every point that occurred previous to my arrival, which so completely confounded Polidori.”
“A letter! Pray let me have it immediately.”
Murphy gave the letter of the marquise to Rodolph, adding:
“As we had agreed, instead of accompanying Madame d’Harville to her father’s, I alighted at a small inn quite close to the château, where I was to wait until the marquise sent for me.”
Rodolph read what follows with tender and impatient solicitude:
“Monseigneur: — After all I owe you already, I now owe to you my father’s life. I will allow facts to speak for themselves; they will say better than I can what fresh accumulations of gratitude to you I have added to those already amassed in my heart. Understanding all the importance of the advice you sent to me by Sir Walter Murphy, who overtook me on my way to Normandy a short distance from Paris, I travelled as speedily as possible to the Château des Aubiers. I know not why, but the countenances of the persons who received me appeared to me sinister. I did not see amongst them any one of the old servitors of our house; no one knew me. I was obliged to tell them my name.
“I learned that for several days my father had been suffering greatly, and that my stepmother had just brought a physician from Paris. I had no doubt but this was Doctor Polidori. Desirous of being immediately conducted to my father, I inquired for an old valet de chambre to whom he was much attached; he had quitted the château some time previously. This I learned from a house-steward who had shown me to my apartment, saying that he would inform my stepmother of my arrival. Was it illusion or suspicion? It seemed to me that my coming annoyed the people at the château where all was gloomy and sinister. In the bent of mind in which I was we seek to draw inferences from the slightest circumstances. I remarked in every part traces of disorder and neglect, as if it had been too much trouble to take care of a house which was so soon to be abandoned. My uneasiness — my anxiety increased at every moment.
“After having established my daughter and her governess in an apartment, I was about to proceed to my father, when my stepmother entered the apartment. In spite of her artfulness, in spite of the control which she ordinarily exercised over herself, she appeared alarmed at my sudden arrival. ‘M. d’Orbigny does not expect your visit, madame,’
she said to me, ‘and he is suffering so much that a surprise may be fatal. I think it, therefore, best that he should not be told of your arrival, for he would be unable to account for it, and—’
“I did not allow her to finish. ‘A terrible event has occurred, madame,’ I said, ‘M. d’Harville is dead, in consequence of a fatal imprudence. After so deplorable a result, I could no longer remain in Paris in my own house, and I have, therefore, come to my father’s, in order to pass the first days of my mourning.’
“‘A widow! Ah, that, indeed, is unexpected happiness!’ exclaimed my stepmother, in a rage. From what you know, monseigneur, of the unhappy marriage which this woman had planned in order to avenge herself on me, you will comprehend the brutality of her remark.
“‘It is because I fear you might be as unexpectedly happy as myself, madame, that I came here,’ was my (perhaps imprudent) reply. ‘I wish to see my father.’
“‘That’s impossible, at this moment!’ she replied, turning very pale; ‘the sight of you would cause a dangerous degree of excitement.’
“‘If my father is so seriously ill,’ I observed, ‘why was I not informed of it?’
