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The Mysteries of Paris V2

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Thus the project of which D'Harville had conversed with his friends
and his intendant, his confidential communications to his old servant,
the surprise which he arranged for his wife, were just so many snares
laid for public credulity.

How could a man be supposed about to kill himself, who was so much
occupied with plans for the future--so desirous of pleasing his wife?
His death was therefore attributed, and could only be attributed, to
an imprudence. As to the resolution, an incurable despair had dictated
it.

"My death alone can dissolve these ties--it must be--I shall kill
myself." And this is the reason why D'Harville had accomplished this
grave and melancholy sacrifice.

If a suitable law of divorce had existed, would he have committed
suicide? No! He would have repaired in part the evil he had done;
restored his wife to liberty, permitted her to find happiness in
another union. The inexorable immutability of the law, then, often
renders certain faults irremediable; or, as in this case, only allows
them to be effaced by a new crime.




CHAPTER XII.

SAINT LAZARE.


We think we ought to inform the most scrupulous of our readers that
the prison of Saint Lazare, specially devoted to prostitutes and
female thieves, is daily visited by several ladies, whose charities,
name, and social position command general respect. These ladies,
brought up amid the splendors of fortune, who with good reason are
classed among the most elevated in society, come every week to pass
long hours with the miserable prisoners. Observing in these degraded
beings the least aspiration after virtue, the least regret for a past
crime, they encourage the better tendencies and repentance; and, by
the powerful magic of the words "duty," "honor," "virtue," sometimes
they rescue from the depths of degradation one abandoned, despised,
ruined being.

Accustomed to the refinements of the best society, these courageous
women leave their houses, pressing their lips to the virginal cheeks
of their daughters, pure as the angels of heaven, and go to the gloomy
prisons to brave the gross indifference, or the criminal conversation,
of thieves and prostitutes.

Faithful to their mission of high morality, they valiantly descend
into the infected receptacle, place the hand on all these ulcerated
hearts, and if some feeble pulsation of honor reveals to them the
slightest hope of saving them, they contend and tear from an almost
irrevocable perdition the wretch of whom they do not despair. The
scrupulous reader, to whom we address ourselves, will calm, then, his
sensibility, in thinking that he will only hear and see, after all,
what these venerated women see and hear every day.

After having, we hope, appeased the reader's scruples, we introduce
him to Saint Lazare, an immense edifice, of imposing and gloomy
aspect, situated in the Rue de Faubourg Saint Denis.

Ignorant of the terrible drama that was passing at home, Madame
d'Harville had gone to the prison, after having obtained some
information from Madame de Lucenay concerning the two unhappy women
whom the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand had plunged into distress. Madame
de Blinval, one of the patronesses before spoken of, not being able to
accompany Clemence to Saint Lazare, she came alone. She was received
with much kindness by the director, and by several inspectresses,
known by their black dresses and a blue ribbon with a silver medal.

One of these, a woman of advanced age, of a soft and grave expression,
remained alone with Madame d'Harville, in a small room adjoining the
office.

Madame Armand, the inspectress who had remained alone with Madame
d'Harville, possessed to an extreme degree of foreknowledge and
insight into the character of the prisoners. Her word and judgment was
of paramount authority in the house.

She said to Clemence: "Since your ladyship has been kind enough to
request me to point out those inmates who, from good conduct or
sincere repentance, should merit your interest, I believe I can
recommend one unfortunate, whom I believe more unhappy than culpable;
for I do not think I deceive myself in affirming, that it is not too
late to save this girl, a poor child of sixteen, or seventeen at
most."

[Illustration: THE INSPECTION OF THE DORMITORY]

"For what has she been confined?"

"She is guilty of being found on the Champs Elysees in the evening. As
it is forbidden her class, under very severe penalties, to frequent,
either day or night, certain places, and the Champs Elysees is among
the number of these prohibited places, she was arrested."

"And she appears interesting to you?"

"I have never seen more regular or more ingenuous features. Imagine,
my lady, a picture of the Virgin. What gave still more to her
appearance a most modest expression was, that when she came here she
was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of Paris."

"She is, then, a country girl?"

"No, my lady. The inspectors recognized her. She lived in a horrible
house in the city, from which she was absent two or three months but
as she had not her name erased from the police registers, she remained
under the control of the officers, who sent her here."

"But perhaps she left Paris to endeavor to reinstate herself?"

"I think so. I felt at once interested in her. I interrogated her as
to the past; I asked her if she came from the country, telling her to
be of good cheer, if, as I hoped, she wished to return to the paths of
virtue."

"What did she reply?"

"Lifting on me her large blue, melancholy eyes, full of tears, she
said to me, in a tone of angelic sweetness, 'I thank you, madame, for
your kindness, but I cannot speak of the past; I have been arrested--I
was wrong--I do not complain.' 'But where do you come from? Where have
you been since you left the city; if you have been to the country to
seek an honest existence, say so; prove it: we will write to the
police to obtain your discharge. You shall be erased from the police
lists, and your good resolutions shall be encouraged.' 'I entreat you,
madame, do not question me; I cannot answer you,' she replied. 'But
when you leave here, do you wish to return to that horrible house
again?' 'Oh, never,' she cried, 'What will you do then?' 'Heaven
knows!' she replied, letting her head fall on her breast."

"This is very strange! She expresses herself--"

"In very good terms, madame; her deportment is timid, respectful, but
without meanness. I will say more. Notwithstanding the extreme
sweetness of her voice and her look, there is at times in her accent,
in her attitude, a kind of sorrowful pride which confounds me. If she
did not belong to the unhappy class of which she is a part, I should
almost think that this pride is that of a soul conscious of its
elevation."




CHAPTER XIII.

MONT SAINT JEAN.


The clock of the prison struck two.

To the severe frost which had reigned for some days, a temperature
soft, mild, almost spring-like, had succeeded; the sunbeams were
reflected on the water of a large square basin, with a stone margin,
situated in the middle of the yard, planted with trees, and surrounded
by high, gloomy walls, pierced with a number of grated windows; wooden
benches were placed here and there in this vast inclosure, which
served as the prisoners' exercise ground.

The tinkling of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the
prisoners noisily rushed into the court through a strong wicket-door
which was opened for them. These women, dressed in uniform, wore black
caps and long blue woolen frocks, confined by a belt and iron buckle.
There were two hundred prostitutes there, condemned for infringements
of the laws which register them, and place them without the common
law.

At the sight of this collection of lost creatures, one cannot prevent
the sad thought, that many among them have been pure and virtuous, at
least some time. We make this restriction, because a great number have
been vitiated, corrupted, depraved, not only from their youth, but
from their most tender infancy.

When the prisoners rushed into the court, screeching and shouting, it
was easy to see that joy alone at escaping from labor did not render
them so noisy. After having pushed through the only door that led to
the yard, the crowd separated, and made a circle around a deformed
being, whom they overwhelmed with hootings.

She was a woman of about thirty-six or forty, short, thick-set,
crooked, her neck sunk between unequal shoulders. They had pulled off
her cap, and her hair, of a rather faded yellow, uncombed, tangled,
striped with gray, fell over her low and stupid face. She was dressed
in a blue frock, like the other prisoners, and carried under her arm a
bundle tied up in a miserable, ragged handkerchief. She tried to ward
off the threatened blows with her left arm.

Nothing could be more sadly grotesque than the features of this poor
creature. It was a ridiculous and hideous face, lengthened to a snout,
wrinkled, tanned, and dirty, pierced with nostrils, and small red
eyes, squinting and bloodshot; by turns supplicating or angry, she
implored and scolded; but they laughed more at her complaints than at
her threats. This woman was the butt of the prisoners. One fact alone,
however, should have saved her from their bad treatment; she was about
to become a mother. But her ugliness and imbecility, and the habit
they had of looking upon her as a victim devoted to the general
amusement, rendered her persecutors implacable, notwithstanding their
ordinary respect for maternity.

Among the most furious of the enemies of Mont Saint Jean (this was the
name of the drudge) could have been remarked La Louve--a tall girl of
about twenty, active, masculine, with rather regular features; her
coarse, black hair was shaded with red; her face was disfigured with
pimples; her thick lips were slightly covered with a bluish down; her
dark eyebrows, very thick and heavy, met above her large brown eyes;
something violent, ferocious, and brutal in her expression, a kind of
habitual laugh, which, lifting her upper lip when she was angry,
showing her white and scattering teeth, explains her surname of La
Louve (She-Wolf). Nevertheless, this face expressed more audacity and
insolence than cruelty--in a word, rather vicious than thoroughly bad,
this woman was yet susceptible of some good feelings.

"Oh, dear, what have I done to you?" cried Mont Saint Jean. "Why do
you treat me so?"

"Because it amuses us. Because you are only fit to be tormented. It is
your trade. Look at yourself; you will see you have no right to
complain."

"But you know I do not complain until I can't stand it any longer."

"Well, we'll leave you alone if you will tell us why you are called
Mont Saint Jean."

"Yes, yes, tell us that."

"I have told you this-a hundred times. An old soldier, whom I once
loved, was called so because he was wounded in the battle of Mont
Saint Jean. I took his name. Are you content now? You make me repeat
the same things."

"If he looked like you he was a beauty! He must have been one of the
invalids."

"I am ugly, I know. Say what you please: all the same to me; but don't
strike me, that's all I ask."

"What have you got in that old handkerchief?" said La Louve.

"Yes, yes, what is it? Come, show it."

"Oh no, I entreat you!" said the poor creature, holding the bundle
tightly in her hands.

"You must give it up."

"Yes; take it from her, La Louve."

"What is it?"

"Well, it is baby's clothes I have commenced for my child. I make them
with the old pieces of linen I pick up. It is of no consequence to
you, is it?"

"Oh, let us see the baby-linen of Mont Saint Jean! Come, come," cried
La Louve, snatching the bundle from the hands of Mont Saint Jean.

The wretched handkerchief was torn to pieces in the struggle, and its
contents, composed of rags and bits of stuff of all colors, were
strewn on the ground and trampled under foot, amid shouts of laughter.

"What rags! What trash! An old rag shop! Takes more thread than stuff!
Here, pick up your duds, Mont Saint Jean!"

"How wicked you are! How bad you must be!" cried the poor creature
running here and there after the scraps and rags, which she tried to
pick up, notwithstanding the blows they gave her. "I have never harmed
any one," said she, weeping. "I have offered, if they would let me
alone, to do anything for them they wanted; to give them half of my
rations, although I am very hungry. Ah, well! no, no, it is just the
same. But what must I do for peace? They have not even pity on a poor
woman in my condition! They must be more savage than wild beasts! I
had so much trouble to collect those little scraps of linen. How do
you think I shall do, since I have no money to buy anything?" Suddenly
she cried, in an accent of joy, "Oh, now you have come, La Goualeuse,
I am saved! Speak to them for me! They will listen to you, surely, for
they love you as much as they hate me."

The Goualeuse (the Songstress) arriving, the last of the prisoners had
entered the yard.




CHAPTER XIV.

GOUALEUSE AND LOUISE.


Before we continue the account of this horrible scene, we must return
to the Marchioness d'Harville and Madame Armand, whose conversation
had been for a moment interrupted. At the ringing of the bell, the
inspectress had hastened to one of the doors which opened into the
prison yard, to be ready to prevent by her presence, or calm by her
authority, any tumult or quarrels that might arise among the scholars,
whose passions, restrained for some time by discipline and employment,
only wanted the hour of idleness and recreation to be aroused and
excited. Madame Armand had witnessed, in mournful silence, the cruel
treatment of which Mont Saint Jean was a victim, and she had already
advanced to snatch her from her tormentors, when Fleur-de-Marie
appeared.

"She is saved!" said she to herself, and returned to the parlor where
Madame d'Harville awaited her.

"But this is quite a romance that you have just related," cried the
latter, without giving Madame Armand time to apologize for her
absence. "What are the relations of this girl, whose beauty, language,
and manners form such a strange contrast to her past degradation and
present situation with the other prisoners? If she is endowed with the
elevation of mind that you suppose, she must suffer much from
associating with her miserable companions."

"Everything concerning this girl is a subject of astonishment. Hardly
has she been here three days, yet already she possesses a kind of
influence over the other prisoners."

"In so short a time?"

"They show her not only interest, but almost respect."

"How? These unfortunates--"

"Have sometimes an instinct of singular delicacy in perceiving the
noble qualities of others; yet they often hate those whose superiority
they are obliged to admit."

"But they do not hate this young girl?"

"Far from that, madame; not one of them knew her before she entered
here. They were at first struck with her beauty. Her features,
although of rare beauty, are, it is true, veiled with a touching,
unhealthy paleness. This sweet and melancholy face inspired them at
first with more interest than jealousy. Then she became very quiet--
another subject of astonishment for these creatures, who, for the most
part, endeavor always to drown the voice of conscience by force of
noise and tumult. In short, although dignified and reserved, she
showed herself compassionate, which prevented her companions from
being exasperated at her coldness. This is not all. A month ago there
came here an unruly creature, called La Louve, so violent, audacious,
and ferocious is her character. She is a girl of about twenty; tall,
masculine, rather a fine face, but very coarse. We are often obliged
to put her in confinement to subdue her turbulence. Only the day
before yesterday she came out of the cell, very much irritated at the
punishment she had just received. It was meal-time: the poor girl of
whom I have spoken did not eat; she said sadly to her companions, 'Who
wants my bread?' 'I,' said La Louve, first. 'I,' said a poor deformed
creature afterward, called Mont Saint Jean, who serves as a
laughingstock, and sometimes, in spite of us, as a butt to the other
prisoners. The girl gave her bread to the latter, to the great rage of
La Louve. 'I asked you first,' cried she furiously. 'It is true, but
this poor woman has more need of it than you,' answered the girl. La
Louve snatched the bread from the hands of Mont Saint Jean, and began
to vociferate, brandishing her knife. As she is very irascible, and
very much feared, no one dared to take the part of poor Goualeuse."

"What do you call her, madame?"

"La Goualeuse. It is the name, or rather surname, under which she has
been confined here. Almost all of them have similar borrowed names."

"It is very singular."

"It signifies, in their hideous slang, the Songstress; for this young
girl has, they say, a very fine voice; and I readily believe it, for
her tone is enchanting."

"And how did she escape from this villainous Louve?"

"Rendered still more furious by La Goualeuse's coolness, she ran
toward her with an oath and uplifted knife. All the prisoners screamed
with terror. Goualeuse alone regarded without fear this formidable
creature. Smiling bitterly, she said, in her angelic voice, 'Oh, kill
me! kill me! I desire it; but do not make me suffer much.' These
words, it was reported to me, were pronounced with a simplicity so
touching, that almost all the prisoners had tears in their eyes."

"I believe it, said Lady d'Harville, painfully affected.

"The worst characters," answered the inspectress, "happily have
sometimes moments of reflection--a kind of return to the correct path.
On hearing these words, expressed with such resignation, La Louve,
touched to the heart, as she afterward said, threw her knife on the
ground, trampled it under foot, and cried, 'I was wrong to threaten
you, Songstress, for I am stronger than you; you were not afraid of my
knife; you are courageous--I love courage; so now, if any one attempts
to hurt you, I'll defend you.'"

"What a singular character."

"The example of La Louve increased the influence of La Goualeuse; and
at present, a thing almost without a precedent, hardly any of the
prisoners address her familiarly; the greater part respect her, and
even offer to render her any little service that can be rendered among
prisoners. I asked some of the prisoners who slept in the same room
with her, what was the cause of the deference shown her. 'That's more
than we can tell,' they answered; 'it is plain to be seen she is not
one of our sort.' 'But who told you so?' 'No one told us; we see.' 'By
what?' 'In a thousand things. For instance, last night, before she
went to bed, she went on her knees and said her prayers; as she prays,
so La Louve says, she must have a right to pray!'"

"What a strange observation!"

"These poor creatures have no sentiment of religion, yet they never
utter here a sacrilegious or impious word. You will see, madame, in
all our rooms a kind of altar, where the statue of the Virgin is
surrounded with offerings and ornaments made by themselves. But to
return to La Goualeuse. Her companions said to me, 'We see that she is
not our sort, from her soft manners, her sadness, the way in which she
speaks.' And then said La Louve, who was present at this conversation,
'It must be that she is not one of us; for this morning, in our
sleeping-room, without knowing why, we were ashamed to dress ourselves
before her!"

"What strange delicacy in the midst of so much degradation!" cried
Lady d'Harville. "They have a profound sense of their degradation?"

"No one can despise them as much as they despise themselves. Among
some of them, whose repentance is sincere, this original stain of vice
remains indelible in their eyes, even when they find themselves in a
better situation; others become insane, so much does the sense of
their former aberration remain fixed and implacable. I should not be
surprised if the profound sorrow of the Goualeuse proceeds from some
such cause."

"If this should be so, what torture for her! a remorse which nothing
can soothe!"

"Happily, madame, for the honor of the human race, this remorse occurs
oftener than is supposed; avenging conscience never completely sleeps,
or rather, strange thing, sometimes one would say that the spirit
watches while the body sleeps. It is an observation that I made only
this night again in reference to my _protegee_. Very, often, when
the prisoners are asleep, I make the rounds of the sleeping
apartments. Your ladyship cannot imagine how much the physiognomies of
these women differ in expression while they sleep. A great number of
them, whom I had seen during the day careless, bold, brazen, impudent,
seemed completely to have changed when sleep had deprived their
features of all the audacity of wickedness; for vice, alas! has its
pride. Oh, what sorrowful revelations on these countenances, then
dejected, melancholy, and sad! What involuntary starts! What mournful
sighs torn from them by a dream, doubtless impressed with an
inexorable reality! I spoke to you just now, madame, of this girl
called La Louve. About fifteen days ago she insulted me brutally
before all the prisoners. I shrugged my shoulders; my indifference but
exasperated her. Then she thought to wound me by uttering something
disgraceful concerning my mother, whom she had often seen here on a
visit to me. Ah, how horrid! I acknowledge, stupid as this attack was,
she hurt me. La Louve saw it, and triumphed. That night I went to make
an inspection in the sleeping apartment; I reached the bed of La
Louve, who was to be put in the cell next morning; I was struck with
the sweetness of her face, compared with the hard and insolent
expression which was habitual to her; her features seemed
supplicating, full of sadness and contrition; her lips were half-open,
her breathing oppressed; finally, a thing which appeared to me
incredible, for I thought it impossible, tears--tears fell from her
eyes. I looked at her in silence for some moments, when I heard her
pronounce these words, 'Pardon! pardon her, mother!' I listened more
attentively, but all that I could hear was my name, Madame Armand,
pronounced with a sigh."

"She repented, during her sleep, of having abused your mother?"

"I thought so, and it made me less severe."

"And the next day, did she express any regret for her past conduct?"

"None; she showed herself as wild as ever."

"But, madame, you must need great courage, much strength of mind, not
to recoil before the unpleasantness of a task which brings such rare
returns!"

"The consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and encourages me--
besides, sometimes, one is recompensed by some happy discovery."

"No matter; women like you, madame, are seldom to be found."

"No, no; I assure you what I do others do, and with more success and
intelligence than I. One of the inspectresses of the other quarter of
Saint Lazaro, destined for those accused of other crimes, will
interest you much more. She related to me the arrival, this morning,
of a young girl, accused of infanticide. Never have I heard anything
more touching. The father of the poor unfortunate has become insane
from grief, on learning the shame of his child. It appears that
nothing could be more frightful than the poverty of this family, who
lived in a wretched garret in the Rue du Temple!"

"The Rue du Temple!" cried Madame d'Harville, astonished. "What is the
name of the family?"

"Morel. Her name is Louise Morel."

"This poor family has been recommended to me," said Clemence,
blushing, "but I was far from expecting to hear such terrible news--
and Louise Morel--"

"Says she is innocent; she swears her child was dead; and her words
have the accent of truth. Since you have interested yourself in her
family, if you would have the kindness to see her, this mark of your
goodness would calm her despair, which they say is fearful."

"Certainly, I will see her, and the Goualeuse also; for all you tell
me about this poor girl affects me sincerely. But what must I do to
obtain her liberty? Then I will find her a place; I will take charge
of her."

"With the relations your ladyship has, it will be very easy for you to
get her discharge to-day or to-morrow; it depends entirely on the
prefect of the police. The recommendation of a person of quality would
be decisive with him. But I have wandered far, madame, from the
observation that I made on the slumber of the Goualeuse. On this
subject, I must confess, that I should not be astonished that, to the
sentiments of profound grief for her first fault, is joined another
sorrow, not less cruel."

"What do you mean to say, madame?"

"Perhaps I am deceived; but I should not be astonished that this young
girl, emancipated, as it were, from the degradation into which she was
first plunged, had experienced perhaps a virtuous love, which was at
once her happiness and misery."

"Why do you think so?"

"The obstinate silence she keeps as to the place where she passed the
three months which followed her departure from the City, makes me
think that she fears to be reclaimed by the persons with whom,
perhaps, she found a refuge."

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