Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “But what risks you have run, — indeed, still run.”

  “Oh, what risk? I might not have been brought to La Force, — that was the worst risk, — but I relied on M. Rodolph’s interest to have my prison changed, so that I might have got to you.”

  “But at your trial?”

  “Well, I shall beg M. Murphy to send me the portmanteau. Before the judge I shall appear in my black wig, blue spectacles, and hump, and shall be again M. Grégoire for the porter who let me the chambers and the tradespeople who sold me the goods. So much for the robbery. If they wish to see the thief again, I’ll put off my suit, and then it will be as clear as daylight that the robber and the robbed together only make a total of the Chourineur and no more. And what the devil would you expect when it is proved that I robbed myself?”

  “Why, indeed,” said Germain, more assured; “but since you take so much interest in me, why did you not speak to me when you came first into the prison?”

  “I knew instantly of the scheme against you by the prisoners, and I might have denounced them before Pique-Vinaigre began or ended his story; but to denounce such ruffians did not suit my ideas, — I preferred trusting only to my fist in order to snatch you from the clutch of the Skeleton; and when I saw that scoundrel I said to myself, ‘This is a fine opportunity for putting in practice that shower of blows to which I owe the honour of M. Rodolph’s acquaintance.’”

  “But if all the prisoners had taken part against you, alone, what could you have done?”

  “Why, then, I should have shrieked like an eagle and called lustily for help. But I preferred having my little affair all to myself, that I might be able to say to M. Rodolph, ‘I was all alone in the matter. I have defended and will defend your friend, — be easy on that subject.’”

  At this moment the turnkey suddenly returned to the apartment.

  “Monsieur Germain, go to the governor; he wishes to speak to you immediately. And you, Chourineur, go down into the Fosse-aux-Lions; you are to be prévôt, if you like, for you have all the qualifications for that duty, and the prisoners will not joke with a man of your sort.”

  “It is all the same to me, I’d as soon be captain as private.”

  “Will you refuse my hand now?” said Germain, cordially.

  “Ma foi! no, M. Germain! I’ll shake hands with all my heart.”

  “We shall see one another again, for I am now under your protection. I shall have nothing more to fear, and shall, therefore, come down every day from my cell into the yard.”

  “Make yourself quite easy on that score. But now I think of it, write a line to M. Rodolph, who will then no longer be uneasy about you, and will also learn that I am here for a good reason, for if he were to hear that I had committed a robbery, and did not know all the real facts, — thunder! That would not do by any means.”

  “Make your mind easy. I will write this very evening to my unknown protector. Once more, good-bye, and thanks most heartily, my worthy friend.”

  “Good-bye, M. Germain. I must return to those scoundrels, and I’ll make them go right; if not, let them look out for squalls!”

  “When I reflect that it is on my account that you must remain some time longer with these wretches—”

  “What consequence is that? There is no fear of their turning on me;” and the Chourineur followed the turnkey.

  Germain went to the governor. What was his surprise to find Rigolette there! pale, agitated, and her eyes bathed in tears; and yet smiling through her tears, her countenance expressing unutterable happiness.

  “I have good news for you, sir,” said the governor to Germain; “justice has declared that no prosecution can be instituted against you; and in consequence of the withdrawing of this, and explanations that have taken place, I have received an order to set you at liberty immediately.”

  “Sir! What do you say? Can it be possible?”

  Rigolette tried to speak, but her extreme emotion prevented her, and she could only make an affirmative sign to Germain with her head, and clasp her hands.

  “Mademoiselle arrived a few minutes after I had received the order to set you at liberty,” added the governor. “A very powerful letter of recommendation which she brought to me informed me of the touching devotion she had shown to you in prison; and it is with extreme pleasure that I sent for you, certain that you will be very happy to offer your arm to mademoiselle, and lead her hence.”

  “A dream! It must be a dream!” said Germain. “Ah, sir, how can I thank you? Excuse my astonishment, — joy prevents me from thanking you as I ought.”

  “And I, too, M. Germain, — I cannot find a word to say,” said Rigolette; “only imagine my delight when I left you on finding the friend of M. Rodolph, who was waiting for me.”

  “Again M. Rodolph!” exclaimed Germain, astonished.

  “Yes, and M. Murphy said to me, ‘Germain is free — here is a letter for the governor of the prison; when you arrive there he will have received the order for Germain’s release, and you may take him away with you.’ I could not believe what I heard, and yet it was true. Well, as quick as possible, I took a hackney-coach, and came here; it is waiting for us at the gate.”

  We will not attempt to paint the delight of the two lovers when they quitted La Force, and the evening they passed together in Rigolette’s small apartment, which Germain quitted at eleven o’clock to go to a humble furnished room.

  VOLUME VI.

  CHAPTER I.

  PUNISHMENT.

  WE WILL AGAIN conduct the reader into the study of Jacques Ferrand. Availing ourselves of the loquacity of the clerks, we shall endeavour, through their instrumentality, to narrate the events that had occurred since the disappearance of Cecily.

  “A hundred sous to ten, if his present state continues, that in less than a month our governor will go off with a pop.”

  “The fact is, since Cecily left, he is only skin and bones.”

  “And now he takes to the priests again more than ever.”

  “The curé of the parish is a most respectable man, and I overheard him say yesterday, to another priest who accompanied him, ‘It is admirable! M. Jacques Ferrand is the personification of charity.’”

  “Well, then, when the curé declares a thing one must credit it; and yet to believe that the governor is charitable is almost beyond my belief.”

  “Remember the forty sous for our breakfast.”

  “Yes, but then the head clerk says that three days ago the governor realised a large sum in the funds, and that he is about to sell his business.”

  “Well, no doubt he has the means to retire.”

  “He has speculated on the Bourse, and gained lots of money.”

  “What astonishes me is this friend who follows him like his shadow.”

  “Yes, he does not leave M. Ferrand for a moment; they eat together, and seem as if they were inseparable.”

  “It seems to me as if I had seen this intruder somewhere!”

  “Have you not remarked that every two hours there comes a man with large light moustaches, with a military air, who inquires for the intruder of the porter? This friend then goes down-stairs, discourses for a moment with the hero with moustaches, after which the military gent turns on his heel, goes away, and returns two hours afterwards.”

  “Yes, I have remarked it. It appears to me that, as I go and come, I see in the street men who appear to be watching the house.”

  “Perhaps the head clerk knows more of this than we do. By the way, where is he?”

  “At the house of the Countess Macgregor, who has been assassinated, and is now despaired of. They sent for the governor to-day, but the head clerk was despatched in his stead.”

  “He has plenty in his hands, then, for I suppose he will fill Germain’s place as cashier.”

  “Talking of Germain, an odd thing has occurred. The governor, in order to free him from prison, has declared that he made a mistake in his accounts, and that he has found the money he accused Germain of taking.�
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  “I do not see anything odd in that, — it is but justice. I was sure that Germain was incapable of theft.”

  “Ah, here’s a coach, gents!” said Chalamel, looking out of the window; “it is not a spicy turn-out like that of the famous vicomte, the gay Saint-Remy, but a hack concern.”

  “Who is coming out of it?”

  “Only the curé, — a very worthy man he is, too.”

  “Silence! Some one comes in! To your work, my boys!”

  And all the clerks, leaning over their desks, began to scrawl away with much apparent industry, and as if their attention had not been taken off their business for a single instant.

  The pale features of the priest expressed at once a gentle melancholy combined with an air of intelligence and venerable serenity. A small black cap covered the crown of his head, while his long gray locks hung down over the collar of his greatcoat. Let us merely add to this hasty sketch, that owing to the worthy priest’s implicit confidence in the words and actions of others, he was, and ever had been, completely blinded by the deep and well-practised hypocrisy of Jacques Ferrand.

  “Is your worthy employer in his room, my children?” inquired the curé.

  “Yes, M. l’Abbé, he is,” answered Chalamel, as, rising respectfully, he opened the door of an adjoining study, and waited for the priest to enter.

  Hearing loud voices in the apartment, and unwilling to overhear words not intended for his ears, the abbé walked rapidly forwards, and tapped briskly at the door.

  “Come in,” said a voice with a strong Italian accent; and, entering, the priest found himself in the presence of Polidori and Jacques Ferrand.

  The clerks did not appear to have erred in calculating upon the approaching end of their employer. He was, indeed, scarcely to be recognised. Spite of the almost spectral thinness and pallor of his sharpened features, a deep red fever-spot burned and scorched upon his projecting cheek-bones; a sort of incessant tremor, amounting occasionally to convulsive spasms and starts, shook his attenuated frame. His coarse but wasted hands seemed parched with feverish heat, while his bloodshot eyes were shrouded from view by the large green glasses he wore. Altogether his face was a fearful index of the internal ravages of a fast consuming disease.

  The physiognomy of Polidori offered a strong contrast to that of the notary. Nothing could express a more bitter irony, a more biting contempt, than the features of this hardened villain, surrounded as they were by a mass of red hair, slightly mingled with gray, hanging in wild disorder over his pale, wrinkled brow, and partially hiding his sharp, penetrating eyes, which, green and transparent as the stone known as the aqua marine, were placed very close to his hooked nose, and imparted a still more sinister character to the look of sarcastic malevolence that dwelt on his thin, compressed lips. Such was Polidori, as, attired in a suit of entire black, he sat beside the desk of Jacques Ferrand. At the sight of the priest both rose.

  “And how do you find yourself, my good M. Ferrand?” inquired the abbé, in a tone of deep solicitude; “let me hope you are better.”

  “Much the same as you last saw me, M. l’Abbé,” replied the notary. “No sleep, no rest, and constantly devoured by fever; but God’s will be done!”

  “Alas, M. l’Abbé!” interposed Polidori, “my poor friend is no better; but what a blessed spirit he is in! What resignation! Finding no other relief from his suffering than in doing good!”

  “Have the goodness to cease these praises, which I am far from meriting,” said the notary, in a short, dry tone, as though struggling hard to restrain his feelings of rage and resentment; “to the Lord alone belongs the right of judging what is good and what evil, — I am but a miserable sinner!”

  “We are all sinners,” replied the abbé, mildly; “but all have not the extreme charity by which you are distinguished, my worthy friend. Few, indeed, like you, are capable of weaning their affections from their earthly goods, that they may be employed only as a means of leading a more Christianlike life. Are you still determined upon retiring from your profession, the better to devote yourself to religious duties?”

  “I disposed of my practice a day or two ago, for a large and handsome sum. This money, united with other property, will enable me to found the institution I was speaking to you of, and of which I have entirely sketched out the plan. I am about to lay it before you, and to ask your assistance in improving it where necessary.”

  “My noble-minded friend,” exclaimed the abbé, with the deepest and holiest admiration, “how naturally and unostentatiously you do these things! Ah, well might I say there were but few who resembled you; and upon the heads of such too many blessings can scarcely be prayed for and wished.”

  “Few persons, like my friend Jacques here,” said Polidori, with an ironical smile, which wholly escaped the abbé, “are fortunate enough to possess both piety and riches, charity and discrimination as to the right channel into which to pour their wealth, in order that it may work well for the good of their soul.”

  At this repetition of sarcastic eulogium, the notary’s hand became clenched with internal emotion, while, through his spectacles, he darted a look of deadly hatred on Polidori.

  “Do you perceive, M. l’Abbé,” said the dear friend of Jacques Ferrand, hastily, “he has these convulsive twitchings of the limbs continually? — and yet he will not have any advice. He really makes me quite wretched to see him, as it were, killing himself! Nay, my excellent friend, spite of those displeased looks, I will persist in declaring, in the presence of M. l’Abbé, that you are destroying yourself by refusing all succour as you do.”

  As Polidori uttered these words, a convulsive shudder shook the notary’s whole frame; but in another instant he had regained the mastery over himself, and was calm as before. A less simple-minded man than the abbé might have perceived, both during this conversation and in that which followed, a something unnatural in the language and forced actions of Jacques Ferrand, for it is scarcely necessary to state that his present proceedings were dictated to him by a will and authority he was powerless to resist, and that it was by the command of Rodolph the wretched man was compelled to adopt words and conduct diametrically the reverse of his own sentiments or inclinations. And so it was that, when sore pressed, the notary seemed half inclined to resist the arbitrary and invisible power he found himself obliged to obey. But a glance at Polidori soon put an end to his indecision, and, restraining all his rage and impotent fury, Jacques Ferrand forbore any further manifestation of futile rage, and bent beneath the yoke he could neither shake off nor break.

  “Alas, M. l’Abbé!” resumed Polidori, as though taking an infernal pleasure in thus torturing the miserable notary, “my poor friend wholly neglects his health. Let me entreat of you to join your request to mine, that he will be more careful of his precious self, if not for himself or his friends, at least for the sake of the poor and needy, whose hope and support he is.”

  “Enough! Enough!” murmured the notary, in a deep, guttural voice.

  “No,” said the priest, much moved, “’tis not enough! You can never be reminded too frequently that you belong not to yourself, and that you are to blame for neglecting your health. During the ten years I have known you I cannot recollect your ever being ill before the present time, but really the last month has so changed you that you are scarcely like the same person. And I am the more struck with the alteration in your appearance, since for some little time I have not seen you. You may recollect that when you sent for me the other day, I could not conceal my surprise on finding you so changed; during the short space of time that has elapsed since that visit, I find you even more rapidly altered for the worse. You are visibly wasting away, and occasion us all very serious uneasiness. I therefore most earnestly entreat of you to consider and attend to your health.”

  “Believe me, M. l’Abbé, I feel most grateful for the kind interest you express, but that I cannot bring myself to believe my situation as dangerous as you do.”

  “Nay,” s
aid Polidori, “since you are thus obstinate, M. l’Abbé shall know all. He greatly loves, esteems, and honours you; but how will those feelings be increased when he learns the real cause of your languishing condition, with the fresh claims your additional merits give you to his regard and veneration!”

  “M. l’Abbé,” said the notary, impatiently, “I sent to beg your company that I might confer with you on a matter of importance, and not to take up your time in listening to the absurd and exaggerated eulogiums of my friend!”

  “You know, Jacques,” said Polidori, fixing a piercing glance of fearful meaning on the notary, “that it is useless attempting to escape from me, and that you must hear all I have got to say.”

  The person so addressed cast down his eyes, and durst not reply. Polidori continued:

  “You may probably have remarked, M. l’Abbé, that the first symptoms of our friend’s illness manifested themselves in a sort of nervous attack, which followed the abominable scandal raised by the affair of Louise Morel, while in his service.”

  A sort of aguish shivering ran over the notary.

  “Is it possible that you, sir, are acquainted with that unfortunate girl’s story?” inquired the priest, greatly astonished. “I imagined you had only been in Paris a few days.”

  “And you were correctly informed; but my good friend Jacques told me all about it, as a man would relate such a circumstance to his friend and physician, since he attributed the nervous shock under which he is now labouring to the excessive indignation awakened in his mind by the discovery of his servant’s crime. But that is not all. My poor friend’s sympathies have been still more painfully awakened by a fresh blow, which, as you perceive, has had a very serious effect on his health. An old and faithful servant, attached to him by many years of well-requited service—”

  “You allude to the untimely end of Madame Séraphin, I presume,” said the curé, interrupting Polidori. “I heard of the melancholy affair; she was drowned, I believe, from some carelessness or imprudence manifested by her while making one in a party of pleasure. I can quite understand the distress such a circumstance must have occasioned M. Ferrand, whose kind heart would be unable to forget that she who was thus snatched from life had, for ten long years, been his faithful, zealous domestic; far from blaming such regrets, I think them but natural, and reflecting as much honour on the survivor as the deceased.”