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Mysteries of Paris, V3

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And he slightly touched her shoulder to arouse her. The girl started and
opened her large eyes, sunken by disease. Let her terror and alarm be
imagined. While a crowd of men surrounded her bed and followed her every
motion with their eyes, she felt the hand of the doctor throw back the
covering, and slip into the bed in order to feel her pulse.

Collecting all her strength, with a voice of anguish and affright, she
cried: "Mother! help, mother!"

By a chance almost providential, at the moment when the cries of Miss de
Fermont made the old Count de Saint Rerny start from his chair, for he
recognized the voice, the door of the hall opened, and a young woman,
dressed in mourning, entered precipitately, accompanied by the director of
the hospital. This was Lady d'Harville.

"In mercy, sir," said she to the director, with the greatest anxiety,
"conduct me to Miss de Fermont."

"Be good enough to follow me, my lady," answered the director,
respectfully. "She is at No. 17, in this hall."

"Unfortunate child! here, here!" said Lady d'Harville, wiping her eyes;
"oh, it is frightful!"

Preceded by the director, she advanced rapidly toward the group assembled
around the bed, when these words were heard, pronounced with indignation:
"I tell you that it is murder--you will kill her, sir."

"But, my dear Saint Reiny, listen then--"

"I repeat to you, sir, that your conduct is atrocious. I regard Miss de
Fermont as my daughter. I forbid you to approach her; I will have her
immediately removed hence."

"But, my dear friend, it is a case of slow nervous fever, very rare. I wish
to try phosphorus. It is a unique occasion. Promise me at least that I
shall take care of her. What matters it where you take her, since you
deprive my clinique of a _subject_ so precious?"

"If you were not mad, you would be a monster," answered the Count de Saint
Rémy.

Clémence listened to these words with increasing anguish; but the crowd was
so dense that the director was obliged to say in a loud voice: "Make room,
gentlemen, if you please--make room for her ladyship, the most noble the
Marchioness d'Harville, who comes to see No. 17."

At these words the students fell back with as much eagerness as respectful
admiration, on seeing the charming face of Clémence, to which emotion had
given a most lively color.

"Madame d'Harville," cried the Count de Saint Rémy, pushing the doctor
rudely aside, and advancing toward Clémence. "Oh! it is heaven who sends
here one of its angels. Madame, I knew that you had interested yourself for
these unfortunates. More fortunate than I, you have found them; as for me,
it was chance which brought me here, to behold a scene of unheard-of
barbarity. Unfortunate child! Do you see, madame--do you see! And you,
gentlemen, in the name of your daughters, or your sisters, have pity on a
child of sixteen, I entreat you; leave me alone with madame and the good
sisters. As soon as she recovers a little, I will have her removed hence."

"So be it. I will sign an order for her departure; but I will follow her
steps--I will cling fast to her. It is a _subject_ which belongs to
me, and she will do well. I will take care of her. I will not experiment
with the phosphorus--well understood--I will pass the night with her if it
is necessary, as I have passed them with you, ungrateful Saint Rémy; for
this fever is quite as singular as yours. They are two sisters, who have
the same claim to my interest."

"Confounded man, why have you so much science?" said the count, knowing
that in truth he could not confide Miss de Fermont to more skillful hands.

"Eh! it is very plain," whispered the doctor in his ear. "I have much
science, because I experiment, because I risk and practice much on my
_subjects_. Now, shall I have my slow fever, old growler?"

"Yes, but can this lady be removed?"

"Certainly."

"Then, for heaven's sake! retire."

"Come, sirs," said the prince of science, "we shall be deprived of a
precious study, but I'll keep you informed of the case."

And Dr. Griffon, accompanied by his numerous attendants, continued his
rounds, leaving Saint Rémy and Madame d'Harville with Claire de Fermont.




CHAPTER XX.

FLEUR-DE-MARIE.


During the scene which we have just described, Claire, Still in her
fainting fit, was delivered to the tender care and attentions of Clémence
and the sisters; one of the latter sustained her drooping head, while Lady
d'Harville, leaning over the bed, wiped away with her handkerchief the cold
sweat from the brow of the patient. Profoundly affected, Saint Rémy
contemplated this touching picture, when a sudden thought struck him, and
he drew near Clémence, and said in a low tone: "And the mother of this
unfortunate, madame?"

The marchioness turned toward Saint Rémy, and answered, with sadness, "She
has no longer a mother, my lord."

"Dead!"

"I only learned last night, on my return, the address of Madame de Fermont,
and her alarming situation. At one o'clock in the morning I was with her,
accompanied by my physician. Oh! sir, what a picture! poverty in all its
horrors--and no hope of saving the expiring mother!"

"Oh! how frightful must have been her agony, if the thought of her daughter
was present!"

"Her last words were--my daughter!"

"What a death! she, the tender mother, so devoted. It is terrible!"

Here one of the sisters entered, interrupting the conversation, and said to
the lady: "The young lady is very feeble--she scarcely has any
consciousness; in a short time she may revive. If you do not fear to remain
here, madame, and wait until she comes to herself, I will offer you my
chair."

"Give it to me," said Clémence, taking a seat along-side of the bed. "I
will not take my eyes from her; I wish that she should, at least, see a
friendly face when she recovers; then I will take her with me, since the
doctor decides that she can be removed without danger."

"Oh! madame, may God bless you for what you do," said Saint Rémy; "but
pardon me for not having told you my name--so much sorrow! so much
emotion!--I am the Count de Saint Rémy; the husband of Madame de Fermont
was my most intimate friend. I live at Angers. I left that city because I
was uneasy at not having received any news from these two noble and worthy
women. I have since heard that they have been completely ruined."

"Oh! sir, you do not know all. Madame Fermont has been most cruelly
despoiled!"

"By her notary, perhaps? For a moment I had such a suspicion."

"The man was a monster, sir! Alas! this cruel crime is not his only one.
But, happily," said Clémence, thinking of Rudolph, "he has been compelled
to make restitution; and while closing the eyes of Madame de Fermont, I
have been able to assure her that her daughter is provided for. Her death
thus had fewer pangs."

"I comprehend; knowing that her daughter was under your protection, madame,
my poor friend died more tranquilly."

"Not only is my protection forever secured to Miss de Fermont, but her
fortune will also be restored."

"Her fortune! How? The notary--"

"Has been forced to restore her money, which he had appropriated to himself
by a horrid crime!"

"A crime?"

"This man assassinated the brother of Madame de Fermont, and made her
believe that this unfortunate man had committed suicide, after having
dissipated her fortune."

"This is horrible; it can hardly be credited; and yet I have had my doubts
about this notary, for Renneville was honor itself. And this money--"

"Is deposited with a venerable priest, M. le Curé of Bonne-Nouvelle; he
will hand it to Miss de Fermont."

"This restitution is not sufficient for human justice, madame! The scaffold
claims this notary, for he has not only committed one murder, but two. The
death of Madame de Fermont, the sufferings which her daughter has endured
on this hospital bed, have been caused by the infamous abuse of confidence
of this wretch!"

"And this wretch has committed another murder, quite as frightful!"

"What do you say, madame?"

"If he made away with the brother of Madame de Fermont by a pretended
suicide, only a few days since he cruelly murdered a young girl, in whose
destruction he was interested, by causing her to be drowned, certain that
this would be attributed to accident."

Saint Rémy shuddered, looked at Madame d'Harville with surprise, and
thinking of Fleur-de-Marie, cried: "Oh! what a strange coincidence!"

"What is the matter, my lord?"

"That young girl! Where was it he wished to drown her?"

"In the Seine, near Asnières, I am told."

"It is she! it is the same!" cried Saint Rémy.

"Of whom do you speak, my lord?"

"Of the girl this monster had an interest in."

"Fleur-de-Marie?"

"Do you know her, my lady?"

"Poor child! I loved her tenderly. Ah! if you had known how beautiful she
was! But how did your lordship--"

"Dr. Griffon and myself gave her the first assistance."

"The first assistance? to her? where?"

"On Ravageurs' Island, where she was saved."

"Saved! Fleur-de-Marie! saved?"

"By a good creature, who, at the risk of her life, drew her out of the
Seine. But what is the matter, madame?"

"Oh! sir, I dare not believe in so much happiness. I entreat you, tell
me--describe the girl!"

"Of admirable beauty, and angelic face--"

"Large blue eyes--flaxen hair?"

"Yes, my lady."

"And when they tried to drown her, was she with an aged woman?"

"In fact it was only yesterday she could speak. She then mentioned that an
old woman accompanied her."

"God be praised!" cried Clémence, clasping her hands fervently. "I can
inform him that his favorite still lives. What joy for him, who in his last
letter spoke of this poor child with such painful regret! Pardon me, sir;
but if your lordship only knew how happy your information makes me, as well
as another, who, still more than myself, has loved and protected
Fleur-de-Marie! But I pray you, where is she at this moment?"

"Near Asnières, in the house of one of the physicians of this hospital--Dr.
Griffon, who, notwithstanding some oddities which I deplore, has excellent
qualities."

"And she is now out of danger?"

"Yes, madame; but only since two or three days. Today she is allowed to
write to her protectors."

"Oh! it is I, my lord, I who will do this, or rather, it is I who will have
the joy of conducting her to those, who, believing her dead, regret her so
bitterly."

"I appreciate those regrets, madame; for it is impossible to know
Fleur-de-Marie without being charmed with her angelic qualities: her grace
and sweetness exercise on all those who approach her an unbounded
influence. The woman who saved her, and who has since watched her night and
day, as she would have watched her own child, is a courageous and
determined person, but of a temper so habitually violent, that she has been
called La Louve--judge! Well! a word from Fleur-de-Marie can calm her. I
have heard her sob and utter cries of despair, when, at one time, Dr.
Griffon had but little hopes of saving Fleur-de-Marie."

"That does not astonish me--I know La Louve."

"You, madame?" said Saint Rémy, surprised; "you know La Louve?"

"It must surprise you, truly, my lord," said the marchioness, smiling
sweetly, for Clémence was happy--oh! very happy--in thinking of the joyful
surprise she would cause the prince. What would have been her delight, if
she had known that it was a daughter whom he believed dead--that she was
about to restore to Rudolph. "Oh! this is so joyful a day for me, that I
wish it to be so for others; it seems to me that there must be many
unfortunate persons here to succor; this would be an excellent way to
express my gratitude, my joy, for the news you have given me." Then,
addressing one of the sisters, who had just given a drink to Miss de
Fermont, she said, "Well, sister, is she yet sensible?"

[Illustration: THE CONVALESCENT]

"Not yet, madame--she is so weak. Poor thing! her pulse can hardly be
felt."

"I will wait until she is able to be removed in my carriage. But tell me,
sister, among all these unhappy sick, do you not know some who particularly
merit my interest and pity, and to whom I can be useful before I leave the
hospital?"

"Oh! madame, it is heaven sends you," said the sister; "there is," added
she, pointing to the bed of Pique-Vinaigre's sister, "a poor woman, very
sick, and very much to be pitied; she mourns continually about two small
children, who have no one to look to for support but herself. She told the
doctor just now that she would leave here, cured or not cured, in a week,
as her neighbor had promised to take care of her children for that time
only."

"Conduct me to her bed, I pray you, sister," said Lady d'Harville, rising,
and following the nun.

Jeanne Duport, scarcely recovered from the violent attack caused by the
treatment of Dr. Griffon, had not perceived the entrance of the noble lady
into the hospital. What was her surprise, then, when the latter, lifting up
the curtains of her bed, said to her, with a look full of kindness and
commiseration, "My good mother, you must not be any longer uneasy about
your children; I will take care of them; only think of being soon cured, so
that you can join them."

Jeanne Duport thought that she was in a dream. In the same place where Dr.
Griffon and his students had made her submit to such a cruel ordeal, she
saw a lady of surpassing beauty come to her with words of pity,
consolation, and hope.

The emotion of Pique-Vinaigre's sister was so great that she could not
utter a word; she clasped her hands as if in prayer, looking at her unknown
benefactress with adoration.

"Jeanne, Jeanne," whispered La Lorraine, "speak to this good lady." Then,
addressing the marchioness, she said, "Ah! madame, you save her; she would
have died with despair in thinking of her poor destitute children."

"Once more reassure yourself, my good mother--have no uneasiness," repeated
the marchioness, pressing in her small white hand the burning one of Jeanne
Duport. "Reassure yourself; be no longer uneasy concerning your children;
and if you prefer it, you shall leave the hospital today; you shall be
nursed at home--nothing shall be wanting. in this way you shall not leave
your dear children; from this time I will see that you do not want for
work, and I will attend to the future welfare of your children."

"Ah! what do I hear? The cherubim descend, then, from heaven, as is written
in the church books," said Jeanne Duport, trembling, and scarcely daring to
look at her benefactress. "Why so much goodness for me? How have I deserved
this? It cannot be possible! I leave the hospital, where I have wept so
much, suffered so much! not leave my children any more! have a nurse! why,
it is a miracle from above!"

And the poor woman spoke the truth. If one only knew how sweet and easy it
is to perform often, and at a small expense, such miracles! Alas! for those
poor unfortunates, abandoned and repulsed on all sides--an instantaneous,
unhoped-for assistance, accompanied by benevolent words of consideration,
tenderly commiserative, may easily wear the supernatural appearance of a
miracle.

"It is not a miracle, my good mother," answered Clémence, much affected;
"that which I do for you," added she, slightly blushing at the recollection
of Rudolph, "that which I do for you is inspired by a generous being, who
has taught me to relieve the unfortunate; it is he whom you must bless and
thank."

"Ah! madame! I shall bless you and yours," said Jeanne Duport, weeping. "I
ask your pardon for expressing myself so badly. I am not accustomed to such
great joy; it is the first time it has happened to me."

"Well! do you see, Jeanne," said La Lorraine, weeping, "there are also
among the sick some Rigolettes and Goualeuses--on a large scale, it is
true; but as to the good heart, it is the same thing!"

Lady d'Harville turned toward La Lorraine, much surprised at hearing her
pronounce these two names.

"You know La Goualeuse and a young workwoman named Rigolette?" demanded
Clémence of La Lorraine.

"Yes, madame. La Goualeuse--dear little angel--did last year for me--bless
her! according to her poor means--that which you do for poor Jeanne. Yes,
madame--oh! it does me good to say and repeat to every one, that La
Goualeuse took me from a cellar where I was confined on some straw; and the
dear little angel removed me and my child to a room where there was a good
bed and a cradle. La Goualeuse did this out of pure charity; for she
scarcely knew me, and was very poor herself. That was very kind, was it
not, madame?" said La Lorraine excited.

"Oh! yes; the charity of the poor toward the poor is holy," said Clémence,
her eyes bathed in tears.

"It was just the same with Rigolette, who, according to her means," replied
La Lorraine, "offered her services, a few days since, to Jeanne."

"What a singular coincidence!" said Clémence to herself, more and more
affected, for each of these two names, La Goualeuse and Rigolette, recalled
a noble action of Rudolph. "And you, my child--what can I do for you?" said
she to La Lorraine. "I wish the names that you have just pronounced with so
much gratitude may bring you good fortune."

"Thank you, madame," said La Lorraine, with a smile of bitter resignation.
"I had a child--it is dead. I am in a consumption, and am in a hopeless
state. I have no longer need of anything."

"What gloomy thoughts! At your age--so young--there is always some
remedy."

"Oh! no, madame, I know my fate: I do not complain. I saw a person die last
night--here--with the same disease; it is an easy death I thank you for
your goodness."

"You may magnify your danger."

"I am not mistaken, madame, I know it well. But since you are so kind--a
great lady like you is all-powerful--"

"Speak--say, what do you wish?"

"I have asked a service of Jeanne; but, since, thanks to the good God and
you, she is going away--"

"Ah! well, this service--can I not render it?"

"Certainly, madame; one word from you to the sisters, or to the physician,
would arrange all."

"This word? I will speak it, be assured."

"Since I have seen the actress who is dead, so tormented by the fear of
being cut up after her death, I have had the same fear. Jeanne promised to
come and claim my body, and have me buried."

"Ah! it is horrible!" said Clémence, shuddering with affright. "One must
come here to know that there are, for the poor, misery and alarms even
beyond the tomb."

"Pardon, madame," said La Lorraine, timidly; "for a great lady, rich and
happy as you deserve to be, this request is a very sad one; I ought not to
have made it!"

"I thank you, on the contrary, my child; it teaches me a misery of which I
was ignorant, and this knowledge shall not be fruitless. Be comforted;
although this fatal moment may be far off, when it does arrive, you may be
sure to repose in holy ground."

"Oh! thank you, madame!" cried La Lorraine. "If I might dare to ask
permission to kiss your hand."

Clémence presented her hand to the parched lips of La Lorraine.

"Oh! thank you, madame. I shall have some one to pray for and bless to the
end, with La Goualeuse, and shall be no longer sad, for after my death---"

This resignation, and the fears far beyond the grave, had painfully
affected Lady d'Harville; she whispered to the sister who came to inform
her that Miss de Fermont was completely restored, "Is the condition of this
young woman really desperate?"

"Alas! yes, madame; La Lorraine is given up; she has not perhaps, a week to
live."

Half an hour afterward, Madame d'Harville, accompanied by Saint Rémy, took
with her, to her own house, the young orphan, from whom she had concealed
the death of her mother.

The same day an agent of Lady d'Harville, after having visited in the Rue
de Barillerie the miserable abode of Jeanne Duport, and having received the
most favorable accounts of this worthy woman, immediately hired on the Quai
de l'École two large rooms and a bedroom; thanks to the resources of the
Temple, they were furnished in two hours, and the same evening, Jeanne
Duport was removed to this dwelling, where she found her children and an
excellent nurse. The same agent was instructed to claim the body of La
Lorraine, whenever she should sink under her malady, and have it decently
interred. After having installed Claire de Fermont in her apartment, Lady
d'Harville set out at once for Asnières, accompanied by Saint Rémy, in
order to conduct Fleur-de-Marie to Rudolph.




CHAPTER XXI.

HOPE.


The early days of spring approached, the sun began to resume his power, the
sky was pure, the air soft and mild. Fleur-de-Marie, leaning on the arm of
La Louve, tried her strength by walking in Dr Griffon's garden. The
vivifying warmth of the sun and the action of walking colored with a rosy
tint the pale, thin cheeks of Goualeuse; her peasant's costume having been
torn in the agitation attending the first assistance that had been rendered
her, she wore a dress of dark-blue merino, made loose, and only confined
around her delicate and slender waist by a woolen girdle.

"How pleasant the sun is!" said she to La Louve, stopping at the foot of a
hedge of green trees exposed to the south, and which surrounded a stone
bench. "Will you sit down here a moment, La Louve?"

"Is there any need of asking me if I will?" answered the wife of Martial,
shrugging her shoulders.

Then, taking from her neck her shawl, she folded it carefully, knelt down,
laid it on the slightly damp gravel of the walk, and said to La Goualeuse:

"Place yourself there."

"But, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, who had perceived the design of her
companion too late to prevent its execution, "but, La Louve, you will ruin
your shawl."

"None of your arguments! the ground is damp," said La Louve, and taking the
small feet of Fleur-de-Marie in her hands, she placed them on the shawl.

"How you spoil me, La Louve!"

"Hum! do you not deserve it; always contending against that which I wish to
do for your good. Are you not fatigued? here is a good half-hour that we
have been walking. Noon has just struck at Asnières."

"I am slightly tired; but I feel that this walk has done me good."

"You see, you were tired--you could not ask me sooner to sit down!"

"Do not scold me--I did not know that I was so weak. It is so pleasant to
walk after having been confined to the bed so long--to see the sun, the
trees, the country, when one has thought never to see them again!"

"The fact is, that you have been in a very dangerous state for two days.
Poor Goualeuse! Yes, now we can tell you that your life was dispaired of."

"And then imagine, that on finding myself under the water, the recollection
flashed across my mind that a wicked woman, who had badly treated me when I
was very little, had always threatened to throw me to the fishes. Then I
said to myself, 'I have no good fortune--it is fated that I shall not
escape.'"

"Poor Goualeuse! was this your last thought when you supposed yourself
lost!"

"Oh, no!" said Fleur-de-Marie, warmly; "when I felt myself about to die, my
last thought was of him whom I regard as my 'Dieu;' so, also, when I was
recalled back to life, my first thought was of him."

"It is a pleasure to confer benefits on you; you do not forget."

"Oh, no! it is so pleasant to fall asleep and dream of one's gratitude, and
on awakening to remember it still!"

"Ah! one would go through fire to serve you."

"Good Louve! Hold; I assure you that one of the causes which render me
desirous to live, is the hope of conferring happiness on you--of
accomplishing my promise; you remember our castles in the air at Saint
Lazare?"

"As to that, there is time enough; now you are on your feet again, I have
made my expenses, as Martial says."

"I hope that the Count of Saint Rémy will tell me, directly, that the
physician will allow me to write to Madame George. She must be so uneasy!
And, perhaps, M. Rudolph also!" added Fleur-de-Marie casting down her eyes,
and blushing anew at the thought of her preserver. "Perhaps they think me
dead!"

"As those believe, also, who ordered you to be drowned, poor dear! Oh, the
hounds!"

"You always suppose, then, that it was not an accident, La Louve?"

"An accident? Yes, the Martials call them _accidents_. When I say the
Martials, it is without counting my man for he is not of that family, no
more than François and Amandine shall be."

"But what interest could any one have in my death! I have never harmed any
one--no one knows me."

"It's all one, if the Martials are scoundrels enough to drown some one,
they are not fools enough to do it for nothing. Some words which the widow
made use of in prison, to my Martial, proves this."

"He has been to see his mother, then? this terrible woman!"

"Yes, and there is no more hope for her, nor for Calabash, nor for
Nicholas. Many things have been discovered, but Nicholas, in the hope of
saving his life, has denounced his mother and sister for another
assassination. On this account they will all be executed; the lawyers have
no hope, the judges say that an example is necessary."

"Ah! it is frightful--almost a whole family!"

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