by Eugène Sue
“Unless Mariette has the same fate as another poor girl I knew.”
“What happened to her, Mother Lacombe?”
“She was robbed.”
“Robbed?”
“She, too, was promised mountains of gold. The man who promised it placed her in furnished apartments, and at the end of three months left her without a penny. Then she killed herself in despair.”
“Really, Mother Lacombe, what kind of a man do you take me for?” demanded the stranger, indignantly. “Do I look like a scoundrel, like a Robert Macaire?”
“I don’t know, I am sure.”
“I, an old soldier who have fought in twenty campaigns, and have ten wounds! I, who am hand and glove with all the lions of Paris! I, who keep my carriage and spend twenty thousand francs a year! Speak out, what security do you want? If you say so, the apartment shall be furnished within a week, the lease made out in your name, and the rent paid one year in advance; besides, you shall have the twenty-five or thirty louis I have about me to bind the bargain, if you like.”
And as he spoke, he drew a handful of gold from his pocket and threw it on the little table by the sick woman’s bed, adding: “You see I am not like you. I am not afraid of being robbed, Mother Lacombe.”
On hearing the chink of coin, the invalid leaned forward, and cast a greedy, covetous look upon the glittering pile. Never in her life had she had a gold coin in her possession, and now she could not resist the temptation to touch the gleaming metal, and let it slip slowly through her fingers.
“I can at least say that I have handled gold once in my life,” the sick woman murmured, hoarsely.
“It is nothing to handle it, Mother Lacombe. Think of the pleasure of spending it.”
“There is enough here to keep one in comfort five or six months,” said the old woman, carefully arranging the gold in little piles.
“And remember that you and Mariette can have as much every month if you like, Mother Lacombe, in good, shining gold, if you wish it.”
After a long silence, the sick woman raised her hollow eyes to the stranger’s face, and said:
“You think Mariette pretty, monsieur. You are right, and there is not a better-hearted, more deserving girl in the world. Well, be generous to her. This money is a mere trifle to a man as rich as you are. Make us a present of it.”
“Eh?” exclaimed the stranger, in profound astonishment.
“Monsieur,” said the consumptive, clasping her hands imploringly, “be generous, be charitable. This sum of money is a mere trifle to you, as I said before, but it would support us for months. We should be able to pay all we owe. Mariette would not be obliged to work night and day. She would have time to look around a little, and find employment that paid her better. We should owe five or six months of peace and happiness to your bounty. It costs us so little to live! Do this, kind sir, and we will for ever bless you, and for once in my life I shall have known what happiness is.”
The sick woman’s tone was so sincere, her request so artless, that the stranger, who could not conceive of any human creature being stupid enough really to expect such a thing of a man of his stamp, felt even more hurt than surprised, and said to himself:
“Really, this is not very flattering to me. The old hag must take me for a country greenhorn to make such a proposition as that.”
So bursting into a hearty laugh, he said, aloud:
“You must take me for a philanthropist, or the winner of the Montyon prize, Mother Lacombe. I am to make you a present of six hundred francs, and accept your benediction and eternal gratitude in return, eh?”
The sick woman had yielded to one of those wild and sudden hopes that sometimes seize the most despondent persons; but irritated by the contempt with which her proposal had been received, she now retorted, with a sneer:
“I hope you will forgive me for having so grossly insulted you, I am sure, monsieur.”
“Oh, you needn’t apologise, Mother Lacombe. I have taken no offence, as you see. But we may as well settle this little matter without any further delay. Am I to pocket those shining coins you seem to take so much pleasure in handling, yes or no?”
And he stretched out his hand as if to gather up the gold pieces.
With an almost unconscious movement, the sick woman pushed his hand away, exclaiming, sullenly:
“Wait a minute, can’t you? You needn’t be afraid that anybody is going to eat your gold.”
“On the contrary, that is exactly what I would like you to do, on condition, of course—”
“But I know Mariette, and she would never consent,” replied the sick woman, with her eyes still fixed longingly upon the shining coins.
“Nonsense!”
“But she is an honest girl, I tell you. She might listen to a man she loved, as so many girls do, but to you, never. She would absolutely refuse. She has her ideas — oh, you needn’t laugh.”
“Oh, I know Mariette is a virtuous girl. Madame Jourdan, for whom your goddaughter has worked for years, has assured me of that fact; but I know, too, that you have a great deal of influence over her. She is dreadfully afraid of you, Madame Jourdan says, so I am sure that you can, if you choose, persuade or, if need be, compel Mariette to accept — what? Simply an unlooked-for piece of good fortune, for you are housed like beggars and almost starving, that is evident. Suppose you refuse, what will be the result? The girl, with all her fine disinterestedness, will be fooled sooner or later by some scamp in her own station in life, and—”
“That is possible, but she will not have sold herself.”
“That is all bosh, as you’ll discover some day when her lover deserts her, and she has to do what so many other girls do to save herself from starving.”
“‘Go away and let me alone.’”
Original etching by Adrian Marcel.
“That is very possible,” groaned the sick woman. “Hunger is an evil counsellor, I know, when one has one’s child as well as one’s self to think of. And with this gold, how many of these poor girls might be saved! Ah! if Mariette is to end her days like them, after all, what is the use of struggling?”
For a minute or two the poor woman’s contracted features showed that a terrible conflict was raging in her breast. The gold seemed to exercise an almost irresistible fascination over her; she seemed unable to remove her eyes from it; but at last with a desperate effort she closed them, as if to shut out the sight of the money, and throwing herself back on her pillow, cried, angrily:
“Go away, go away, and let me alone.”
“What! you refuse my offer, Mother Lacombe?”
“Yes.”
“Positively?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ve got to pocket all this gold again, I suppose,” said the stranger, gathering up the coins, and making them jingle loudly as he did so. “All these shining yellow boys must go back into my pocket.”
“May the devil take you and your gold!” exclaimed the now thoroughly exasperated woman. “Keep your money, but clear out. I didn’t take Mariette in to ruin her, or advise her to ruin herself. Rather than eat bread earned in such way, I would light a brazier of charcoal and end both the girl’s life and my own.”
Madame Lacombe had scarcely uttered these words before Mariette burst into the room, pale and indignant, and throwing herself upon the sick woman’s neck, exclaimed:
“Ah, godmother. I knew very well that you loved me as if I were your own child!”
Then turning to Commandant de la Miraudière, whom she recognised as the man who had stared at her so persistently at Madame Jourdan’s, she said contemptuously:
“I beg that you will leave at once.”
“But, my dear little dove—”
“I was there at the door, monsieur, and I heard all.”
“So much the better. You know what I am willing to do, and I assure you—”
“Once more, I must request you to leave at once.”
“Very well, very well, my little Lucrece, I will go,
but I shall allow you one week for reflection,” said the stranger, preparing to leave the room.
But on the threshold he paused and added:
“You will not forget my name, Commandant de la Miraudière, my dear. Madame Jourdan knows my address.”
After which he disappeared.
“Ah, godmother,” exclaimed the girl, returning to the invalid, and embracing her effusively, “how nobly you defended me!”
“Yes,” responded the sick woman, curtly, freeing herself almost roughly from her goddaughter’s embrace, “and yet with all these virtues, one perishes of hunger.”
“But, godmother—”
“Don’t talk any more about it, for heaven’s sake!” cried the invalid, angrily. “It is all settled. What is the use of discussing it any further? I have done my duty; you have done yours. I am an honest woman; you are an honest girl. Great good it will do you, and me, too; you may rest assured of that.”
“But, godmother, listen to me—”
“We shall be found here some fine morning stiff and cold, you and I, with a pan of charcoal between us. Ah, ha, ha!”
And with a shrill, mirthless laugh, the poor creature, embittered by years of misfortune, and chafing against the scruples that had kept her honest in spite of herself, put an end to the conversation by abruptly turning her back upon her goddaughter.
It was nearly night now.
Mariette went out into the hall where she had left the basket containing the sick woman’s supper. She placed the food on a small table near the bed, and then went and seated herself silently by the narrow window, where, drawing the fragments of her lover’s letter from her pocket, she gazed at them with despair in her soul.
On leaving Mariette, the commandant said to himself:
“I’m pretty sure that last shot told in spite of what they said. The girl will change her mind and so will the old woman. The sight of my gold seemed to dazzle the eyes of that old hag as much as if she had been trying to gaze at the noonday sun. Their poverty will prove a much more eloquent advocate for me than any words of mine. I do not despair, by any means. Two months of good living will make Mariette one of the prettiest girls in Paris, and she will do me great credit at very little expense. But now I must turn my attention to business. A fine little discovery it is that I have just made, and I think I shall be able to turn it to very good account.”
Stepping into his carriage, he was driven to the Rue Grenelle St. Honoré. Alighting in front of No. 17, a very unpretentious dwelling, he said to the porter:
“Does M. Richard live here?”
“A father and son of that name both live here, monsieur.”
“I wish to see the son. Is M. Louis Richard in?”
“Yes, monsieur. He has only just returned from a journey. He is with his father now.”
“Ah, he is with his father? Well, I would like to see him alone.”
“As they both occupy the same room, there will be some difficulty about that.”
The commandant reflected a moment, then, taking a visiting card bearing his address from his pocket, he added these words in pencil: “requests the honour of a visit from M. Louis Richard to-morrow morning between nine and ten, as he has a very important communication which will brook no delay, to make to him.”
“Here are forty sous for you, my friend,” said M. de la Miraudière to the porter, “and I want you to give this card to M. Louis Richard.”
“That is a very easy way to earn forty sous.”
“But you are not to give the card to him until to-morrow morning as he goes out, and his father is not to know anything about it. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, monsieur, and there will be no difficulty about it as M. Louis goes out every morning at seven o’clock, while his father never leaves before nine.”
“I can rely upon you, then?”
“Oh, yes, monsieur, you can regard the errand as done.”
Commandant de la Miraudière reëntered his carriage and drove away.
Soon after his departure a postman brought a letter for Louis Richard. It was the letter written that same morning in Mariette’s presence by the scrivener, who had addressed it to No. 17 Rue de Grenelle, Paris, instead of to Dreux as the young girl had requested.
We will now usher the reader into the room occupied by the scrivener, Richard, and his son, who had just returned from Dreux.
CHAPTER V.
FATHER AND SON.
THE FATHER AND son occupied on the fifth floor of this old house a room that was almost identical in every respect with the abode of Mariette and her godmother. Both were characterised by the same bareness and lack of comfort. A small bed for the father, a mattress for the son, a rickety table, three or four chairs, a chest for their clothing — these were the only articles of furniture in the room.
Father Richard, on his way home, had purchased their evening repast, an appetising slice of ham and a loaf of fresh bread. These he had placed upon the table with a bottle of water, and a single candle, whose faint light barely served to render darkness visible.
Louis Richard, who was twenty-five years of age, had a frank, honest, kindly, intelligent face, while his shabby, threadbare clothing, worn white at the seams, only rendered his physical grace and vigour more noticeable.
The scrivener’s features wore a joyful expression, slightly tempered, however, by the anxiety he now felt in relation to certain long cherished projects of his own.
The young man, after having deposited his shabby valise on the floor, tenderly embraced his father, to whom he was devoted; and the happiness of being with him again and the certainty of seeing Mariette on the morrow made his face radiant, and increased his accustomed good humour.
“So you had a pleasant journey, my son,” remarked the old man, seating himself at the table.
“Very.”
“Won’t you have some supper? We can talk while we eat.”
“Won’t I have some supper, father? I should think I would. I did not dine at the inn like the other travellers, and for the best of reasons,” added Louis, gaily, slapping his empty pocket.
“You have little cause to regret the fact, probably,” replied the old man, dividing the slice of ham into two very unequal portions, and giving the larger to his son. “The dinners one gets at wayside inns are generally very expensive and very poor.”
As he spoke, he handed Louis a thick slice of bread, and the father and son began to eat with great apparent zest, washing down their food with big draughts of cold water.
“Tell me about your journey, my son,” remarked the old man.
“There is very little to tell, father. My employer gave me a number of documents to be submitted to M. Ramon. He read and studied them very carefully, I must say. At least he took plenty of time to do it, — five whole days, after which he returned the documents with numberless comments, annotations, and corrections.”
“Then you did not enjoy yourself particularly at Dreux, I judge.”
“I was bored to death, father.”
“What kind of a man is this M. Ramon, that a stay at his house should be so wearisome?”
“The worst kind of a person conceivable, my dear father. In other words, an execrable old miser.”
“Hum! hum!” coughed the old man, as if he had swallowed the wrong way. “So he is a miser, is he? He must be very rich, then.”
“I don’t know about that. One may be stingy with a small fortune as well as with a big one, I suppose; but if this M. Ramon’s wealth is to be measured by his parsimony, he must be a multi-millionaire. He is a regular old Harpagon.”
“If you had been reared in luxury and abundance, I could understand the abuse you heap upon this old Harpagon, as you call him; but we have always lived in such poverty that, however parsimonious M. Ramon may be, you certainly cannot be able to see much difference between his life and ours.”
“Ah, father, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, M. Ramon keeps two servants; we have none. He occupies an entire house; we both eat and sleep in this garret room. He has three or four courses at dinner, we take a bite of anything that comes handy, but for all that we live a hundred times better than that skinflint does.”
“But I don’t understand, my son,” said Father Richard, who for some reason or other seemed to be greatly annoyed at the derogatory opinion his son expressed. “There can be no comparison between that gentleman’s circumstances and ours.”
“My dear father, we make no attempt to conceal our poverty at all events. We endure our privations cheerfully, and if I sometimes, in my ambitious moments, dream of a rather more comfortable existence, you know it is not on my own account, for I am very well satisfied with my lot.”
“My dear boy, I know what a kind heart you have, I know, too, how much you love me, and the only thing that consoles me for our poverty is the knowledge that you do not repine at your lot.”
“Repine at my lot when you share it? Besides, what we lack is really only the superfluous. We do not eat capons stuffed with truffles, it is true, but we eat with a good appetite, — witness the rapid disappearance of this big loaf of bread; our clothes are threadbare, but warm; we earn, both together, from seventeen to eighteen hundred francs a year. Not a colossal amount, by any means, but we owe no man a penny. Ah, my dear father, if Heaven never sends me any worse trouble than this, I shall never complain.”
“You have no idea how much pleasure it gives me to see you accept your lot in life so cheerfully. But tell me, are you really happy?”
“Very happy.”
