by Eugène Sue
“The farm!” exclaimed Madame Georges. “Have you a farm here?”
“Your surprise is perfectly natural, madame. Yes, we have a farm, the produce of which is most serviceable to the establishment, although entirely worked by the patients.”
“Is it possible? Can you make these lunatics work, and allow them to be at liberty while they do so?”
“Certainly; exercise, the calm tranquillity of the fields, with the aspect of nature, are among our most certain means of cure. Only one keeper goes with them, and we have rarely had an instance of any patient endeavouring to get away; they are delighted to be employed, and the trifling reward they gain serves still to improve their condition, by enabling them to purchase different little indulgences. But we have reached the gate conducting to one of these courts.” Then perceiving a slight appearance of alarm on the countenance of Madame Georges, the doctor added, “Lay aside all apprehension, madame; in a very few minutes you will feel as tranquil as I do myself.”
“I follow you, sir. Come, my children.”
“Anastasie,” whispered Pipelet, “when I think that, had the persecutions of that odious Cabrion continued, your poor dear Alfred might have become mad, like the unhappy wretches we are about to behold, clad in the most wild and singular state, chained up by the middle, or confined in dens like the wild beasts in the ‘Jardin des Plantes—’”
“Oh, bless your dear old heart, don’t talk of such a thing! La! I’ve heard say that them as has gone mad for love are for all the world like born devils directly they see a woman; dashing against the bars of their dens, and making all sorts of horrid noises, till the keepers are forced to flog them till they drop, or else turn great taps of water on their heads before they can quiet them.”
“Anastasie,” rejoined Pipelet, gravely, “I desire you will not go too close to these dreadful creatures, an accident so soon happens.”
“Besides,” answered Anastasie, with a tone of sentimental melancholy, “poor things, I have no business to show myself just for the sake of tantalising them. ’Tis woman’s beauty and fascination reduces them to this horrid state. I declare I feel a cold shudder creep over me as I reflect that, perhaps, if I had refused to make you a happy man, Alfred, you might at this very minute be raving mad for love, and shut up in one of these dens, roaring out the moment you caught sight of a woman; while as it is, my poor old duck is glad to get out of the way of the naughty females that will be trying to make him notice them.”
“’Tis true, my modesty is easily alarmed. But, Anastasie, the door opens, I tremble with dread of what we are about to witness; no doubt the most hideous looking people, and all sorts of dreadful noises, rattling of chains, and grinding of teeth.”
The door being opened admitted them into a long courtyard, planted with rows of trees, under which benches were placed. On each side was a well-constructed and spacious portico, or covered stone terrace, with which a range of large, airy cells communicated. A number of men, all alike clad in a gray dress, were walking, talking, or conversing in this pleasant retreat, while others were seated on the benches, enjoying the refreshing shade and fresh open air.
At the sight of Doctor Herbin a number of the unfortunate lunatics pressed around him, with every manifestation of joy and delight, extending to him their hands with an expression of grateful confidence, to which he cordially responded, by saying:
“Good day — good day, my worthy fellows! I am glad to see you all so well and happy.”
Some of the poor lunatics, too far from the doctor to be able to seize his hand, ventured, with a sort of timid hesitation, to offer theirs to the persons who were with him.
“Good morning, friends,” said Germain, shaking hands in a manner so cordial as to fill the unfortunate beings with happiness.
“Are these the mad patients?” inquired Madame Georges.
“Nearly the worst belonging to the establishment,” answered the doctor, smiling; “they are permitted to be together during the day, but at night they are locked up in the cells you see there.”
“Can it be possible that these men are really mad! But when are they violent?”
“Generally at the first outbreak of their malady, when they are brought here. After a short time the soothing treatment they experience, with the society of their companions, calms and amuses them, so that their paroxysms become milder and less frequent, until at length, by the blessing of God, they recover their senses.”
“What are those individuals talking so earnestly about?” inquired Madame Georges. “One of them seems referring to a blind man, who, in addition to the loss of sight, seems likewise deprived of speech and reason. Have you such a one among your patients, or is the existence of this person but a mere coinage of the brain?”
“Unhappily, madame, it is a fact but too true, and the history connected with it is a most singular one. The blind man concerning whom you inquire was found in a low haunt in the Champs Elysées, in which a gang of robbers and murderers of the worst description were apprehended; this wretched object was discovered, chained in the midst of an underground cave, and beside him lay stretched the dead body of a woman, so horribly mutilated that it was wholly impossible to attempt to identify it. The man himself was hideously ugly, his features being quite destroyed by the application of vitriol. He has never uttered a single word since he came hither; whether his dumbness be real or affected I know not, for, strange to say, his paroxysms always occur during the night, and when I am absent, so as to baffle all conjecture as to his real situation; but his madness seems occasioned by violent rage, the cause of which we cannot find out, for, as I before observed, he never speaks or utters an articulate sound. But here he is.”
The whole of the party accompanying the doctor started with horror at the sight of the Schoolmaster, for he it was, who merely feigned being dumb and mad to procure his own safety. The dead body found beside him was that of the Chouette, whom he had murdered, not during a paroxysm of madness, but while under the influence of such a burning fever of the brain as had produced the fearful dream he had dreamed the night he passed at the farm of Bouqueval.
After his apprehension in the vaults of the tavern in the Champs Elysées, the Schoolmaster had awakened from his delirium to find himself a prisoner in one of the cells of the Conciergerie, where mad persons are temporarily placed under restraint. Hearing all about him speak of him as a raving and dangerous lunatic, he resolved to continue to enact the part, and even feigned absolute dumbness for the purpose of avoiding the chance of any questions being attempted to be put to him.
His scheme succeeded. When removed to Bicêtre he affected occasional fits of furious madness, taking care always to select the night for these outrageous bursts, the better to escape the vigilant eye of the head surgeon; the house doctor, hastily summoned, never arriving in time to witness either the beginning or ending of these attacks.
The few of his accomplices who knew either his name, or the fact of his having escaped from the galleys at Rochefort, were ignorant of what had become of him; and even if they did, what interest could they have in denouncing him? Neither would it have been possible to establish his identity — burnt and mutilated as he was — with the daring felon of Rochefort. He hoped, therefore, by continuing to act the part of a madman, to be permitted to abide permanently at Bicêtre; such was now the only desire of the wretch, unable longer to indulge his appetite for sinful and violent deeds.
During the solitude in which he lived in Bras Rouge’s cellar, remorse gradually insinuated itself into his strong heart; and, cut off from all communication with the outer world, his thoughts fled inwards, and presented him with ghastly images of those he had destroyed, till his brain burned with its own excited torture.
And thus this miserable creature, still in the full vigour and strength of manhood, before whom were, doubtless, long years of life, and enjoying the undisturbed possession of his reason, was condemned to linger out the remainder of his days as a self-imposed mute, and in the
company of fools and madmen; or if his imposition was discovered, his murderous deeds would conduct him to a scaffold, or condemn him to perpetual banishment among a set of villains, for whom his newly awakened penitence made him feel the utmost horror.
The Schoolmaster was sitting on a bench; a mass of grizzled, tangled locks hung around his huge and hideous head; leaning his elbow on his knee, he supported his cheek in his hand. Spite of his sightless eyes and mutilated features, the revolting countenance still expressed the most bitter and overwhelming despair.
“Dear mother,” observed Germain, “what a wretched looking object is this unfortunate blind man!”
“The Schoolmaster Was Sitting on a Bench”
Original Etching by Porteau
“Oh, yes, my son!” answered Madame Georges; “it makes one’s heart ache to behold a fellow creature so heavily afflicted. I know not when anything has so completely shocked me as the sight of this deplorable being.”
Scarcely had Madame Georges given utterance to these words than the Schoolmaster started, and his countenance, even despite its cicatrised and disfigured state, became of an ashy paleness. He rose and turned his head in the direction of Madame Georges so suddenly that she could not refrain from faintly screaming, though wholly unsuspicious of who the frightful creature really was; but the Schoolmaster’s ear had readily detected the voice of his wife, and her words told him she was addressing her son.
“Mother!” inquired Germain, “what ails you? Are you ill?”
“Nothing, my son; but the sudden movement made by that man terrified me. Indeed, sir,” continued she, addressing the doctor, “I begin to feel sorry I allowed my curiosity to bring me hither.”
“Nay, dear mother, just for once to see such a place cannot hurt you!”
“I tell you what, Germain,” interposed Rigolette, “I don’t feel very comfortable myself; and I promise you neither your mother nor I will desire to come here again — it is too affecting!”
“Nonsense! You are a little coward! Is she not, M. le Docteur?”
“Why, really,” answered M. Herbin, “I must confess that the sight of this blind lunatic affects even me, who am accustomed to such things.”
“What a scarecrow, old ducky! Isn’t he?” whispered Anastasie; “but, la! to my eyes every man looks as hideous as this dreadful blind creature in comparison with you, and that is why no one can ever boast of my having granted him the least liberty, — don’t you see, Alfred?”
“I tell you what, Anastasie,” replied Pipelet, “I shall dream of this frightful figure. I know he will give me an attack of nightmare. I won’t eat tripe for supper till I have quite forgot him.”
“And how do you find yourself now, friend?” asked the doctor of the Schoolmaster; but he asked in vain, no attempt was made to reply. “Come, come!” continued the doctor, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, “I am sure you hear what I say; try to make me a sign at least, or speak, — something tells me you can if you will!”
But the only answer made to this address was by the Schoolmaster suddenly drooping his head, while from the sightless eyes rolled a tear.
“He weeps!” exclaimed the doctor.
“Poor creature!” murmured Germain, in a compassionate tone.
The Schoolmaster shuddered; again he heard the voice of his son, breathing forth commiseration for his wretched, though unknown parent.
“What is the matter?” inquired the doctor; “what is it grieves you?”
But, without taking any notice of him, the Schoolmaster hid his face with his hands.
“We shall make nothing of him,” said the doctor. Then, perceiving how painfully this scene appeared to affect Madame Georges, he added, “Now, then, madame, we will go to Morel, and, if my expectations are fulfilled, you will be amply rewarded for the pain you have felt hitherto, in witnessing the joy of so good a husband and father in being restored to his family.”
With these words the doctor, followed by the party that had accompanied him, proceeded on his way, leaving the Schoolmaster a prey to his own distracting thoughts, the most bitter of which was the certainty of having heard his son’s voice, and that of his wife, for the last time. Aware of the just horror with which he inspired them, the misery, shame, and affright with which they would have heard the disclosure of his name made him prefer a thousand deaths to such a revelation. One only, but great, consolation remained in the certainty of having awakened the pity of his son; and, with this thought to comfort him, the miserable being determined to endure his sufferings with repentance and submission.
“We are now about to pass by the yard appropriated to the use of the idiot patients,” said the doctor, stopping before a large grated door, through which the poor idiotic beings might be seen huddled together, with every appearance of the most distressing imbecility.
Spite of Madame Georges’s recent agitation, she could not refrain from casting a glance through the railing.
“Poor creatures!” said she, in a gentle, pitying voice; “how dreadful to think their sufferings are hopeless! for I presume there is no remedy for such an affliction as theirs?”
“Alas, none, madame!” replied the doctor. “But I must not allow you to dwell too long on this mournful picture of human misery. We have now arrived at the place where I expect to find Morel, whom I desired should be left entirely alone, in order to produce a more startling effect in the little project on which I build my hopes for his restoration to reason.”
“What idea principally occupies his mind?” asked Madame Georges.
“He believes that if he cannot earn thirteen hundred francs by his day’s work, in order to pay off a debt contracted with one Ferrand, a notary, his daughter will perish on a scaffold.”
“That man Ferrand was, indeed, a monster!” exclaimed Madame Georges; “poor Louise Morel and her father were not the only victims to his villainy, he has persecuted my son with the bitterest animosity.”
“I have heard the whole story from Louise,” replied the doctor. “Happily the wretch can no more wring your hearts with agony. But be so good as to await me here while I go to ascertain the state of Morel.” Then, addressing Louise, he added, “You must carefully watch for my calling out ‘Come!’ Appear instantly; but let it be alone. When I call out ‘Come!’ for the second time, the rest of the party may make their appearance.”
“Alas, sir, my heart begins to fail me!” replied Louise, endeavouring to suppress her tears. “My poor father! What if the present trial fail!”
“Nay, nay, keep up your courage! I am most sanguine of success in the scheme I have long meditated for the restoration of your father’s reason. Now, then, all you have to do for the present is carefully to attend to my directions.” So saying, the doctor, quitting his party, entered a small chamber, whose grated window looked into the garden.
Thanks to rest, care, sufficiency of nourishing diet, Morel was no longer the pale, careworn, haggard creature that had entered those walls; the tinge of health began to colour his before jaundiced cheek, but a melancholy smile, a fixed, motionless gaze, as though on some object for ever present to his mental view, proved too plainly that Reason had not entirely resumed her empire over him.
When the doctor entered, Morel was sitting at a table, imitating the movements of a lapidary at his wheel.
“I must work,” murmured he, “and hard, too. Thirteen hundred francs! Ay, thirteen hundred is the sum required, or poor Louise will be dragged to a scaffold! That must not be! No, no, her father will work — work — work! Thirteen hundred francs! Right!”
“Morel, my good fellow,” said the doctor, gently advancing towards him, “don’t work so very hard; there is no occasion now, you know that you have earned the thirteen hundred francs you required to free Louise. See, here they are!” and with these words the doctor laid a handful of gold on the table.
“Saved! Louise saved!” exclaimed the lapidary, catching up the money, and hurrying towards the door; “then I will carry it at once to the not
ary.”
“Come!” called out the doctor, in considerable trepidation, for well he knew the success of his experiment depended on the manner in which the mind of the lapidary received its first shock.
Scarcely had the doctor pronounced the signal than Louise sprang forwards, and presented herself at the door just as her father reached it. Bewildered and amazed, Morel let fall the gold he clutched in his hands, and retreated in visible surprise. For some minutes he continued gazing on his daughter with a stupefied and vacant stare, but by degrees his memory seemed to awaken, and, cautiously approaching her, he examined her features with a timid and restless curiosity.
Poor Louise, trembling with emotion, could scarcely restrain her tears; but a sign from the doctor made her exert herself to repress any manifestation of feeling calculated to disturb the progress of her parent’s thoughts.
Meanwhile Morel, bending over his daughter, and peering, with uneasy scrutiny, into her countenance, became very pale, pressed his hands to his brows, and then wiped away the large damp drops that had gathered there. Drawing closer and closer to the agitated girl, he strove to speak to her, but the words expired on his lips. His paleness increased, and he gazed around him with the bewildered air of a person awakening from a troubled dream.
“Good, good!” whispered the doctor to Louise; “now, when I say ‘Come,’ throw yourself into his arms and call him ‘father!’”
The lapidary, pressing his two hands on his breast, again commenced examining the individual before him from head to foot, as if determined to satisfy his mind as to her identity. His features expressed a painful uncertainty, and, instead of continuing to watch the features of his daughter, he seemed as if trying to hide himself from her sight, saying, in a low, murmuring, broken tone:
“No, no! It is a dream! Where am I? It is impossible! I dream, — it cannot be she!” Then, observing the gold strewed on the floor, he cried, “And this gold! I do not remember, — am I then awake? Oh, my head is dizzy! I dare not look, — I am ashamed! She is not my Louise!”
