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The Mysteries of Paris V2

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"You have lived in a, forest. La Louve?"

"Never."

"Who gave you such ideas?"

"Martial. He was a poacher in Rambouillet Wood. About a year ago he
was _looked upon_ as having fired upon a guard who had fired upon
him--villain of a guard! It was not proved in court, but Martial was
obliged to leave. So he then came to Paris to learn a trade; as I
said, he left and went to maraud on the river; it is less slavish. But
he always regrets the woods, and will return there some day or other."

"And, La Louve, where are your parents?"

"Do you think I know!"

"Is it a long time since you have seen them?"

"I do not know if they are dead or alive."

Fleur-de-Marie, although plunged very young into an atmosphere of
corruption, had since respired an air so pure, that she experienced a
painful oppression at the horrid story of La Louve. Suppressing the
emotion which the sad confession of her companion had caused her, she
said to her, timidly, "Listen to me without being angry."

"Come, say on; I hope I have talked enough; but, in truth, all the
same, since it is the last time we shall converse together."

"Are you happy, La Louve?"

"What do you mean?"

"With the life you lead?"

"Here at Saint Lazare?"

"No; at your home, when you are free."

"Yes, I am happy."

"Always?"

"Always."

"You would not change your lot for any other?"

"For what other? There's no other lot for me."

"Tell me, La Louve," continued Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's
silence, "do you not sometimes like to build castles in the air here
in prison? It is so amusing."

"Castles in the air?"

"About Martial."

"Martial?"

"Yes."

"Ma foi, I never have."

"Let me build one for you and Martial."

"What's the use?"

"To pass the time."

"Well, let us see this castle."

"Just imagine, for example, that by chance you should meet some one
who should say to you, 'Abandoned by your father and mother, your
childhood has been surrounded by bad examples; that you must be pitied
as much as blamed for having become--'"

"Having become what?"

"What you and I--have become," answered Goualeuse, in a soft voice.
"Suppose this person were to say to you, 'You love Martial--he loves
you; leave your present mode of life, and become his wife.'"

La Louve shrugged her shoulders.

"Do you think he would take me for his wife?"

"Except his poaching, has he ever committed any other culpable
action?"

"No; he is a poacher on the river, as he was in the woods; and he is
right. Are not fish, like game, the property of those who can take
them? Where is the mark of their owner?"

"Well, suppose, having renounced this, he wishes to become an honest
man; suppose that he inspired, by the frankness of his good
resolutions, enough confidence in an unknown benefactor to be given a
place--as gamekeeper, for instance. To a poacher, it would be to his
liking. It is the same trade, only lawful."

"Lord! yes; it is life in the woods."

"Only this place would be given to him on the sole condition that he
would marry you and take you with him."

"I go with Martial?"

"Yes; you would be happy, you say, to live together in a forest. Would
you not like better, instead of a miserable poacher's hut where you
would hide yourselves like criminals, to have a nice little cottage,
of which you should be the active, industrious housekeeper?"

"You make fun of me. Can this be possible?"

[Illustration: THE SCAFFOLD]

"Who knows? though it is only a castle."

"Ah, true; very well."

"I say, La Louve, it seems to me I already see you established in your
cottage in the forest, with your husband, and two or three children.
What happiness!"

"Children! Martial!" cried La Louve; "oh, yes, they would be
_proudly_ loved."

"How much company they would be for you in your solitude. Then, when
they began to grow up, they could render you some assistance. The
smallest could pick up the dead branches for your fire; the largest
could drive to pasture the cow which has been given to your husband
for his activity; for, having been a poacher himself, he would make
all the better gamekeeper."

"Just so; that's true. Ah, these castles in the air are amusing. Tell
me some more, La Goualeuse."

"They will be very much pleased with your husband. You will receive
from his master some presents; a nice garden. But marry! you will have
to work, La Louve, from morning to night." "Oh, if that was all, once
along with Martial, work wouldn't make me afraid. I have strong arms."

"And you would have enough to occupy them, I answer for it. There is
so much to do. There are the meals to prepare, clothes to mend; one
day the washing, another day the baking, or the house to clean from
top to bottom; so that the other gamekeepers would say, 'Oh, there is
not a housekeeper like Martial's wife; from cellar to garret her house
is as nice as a new pin; and the children always so neat and clean. It
is because she is so industrious.'"

"Tell me, La Goualeuse, is it true I would be called Madame Martial?"

"It is a great deal better than to be called La Louve, is it not?"

"Certainly; I prefer the name of any man to the name of a beast. But,
bah! bah! wolf I am born, and wolf I shall die."

"Who knows? Do not recoil from a hard but honest life that brings
happiness. So, work would not alarm you?"

"Oh, no."

"And then, besides, it is not all labor: there are moments of repose.
In the winter evenings, while your children are asleep, and your
husband smoking his pipe, cleaning his gun, or caressing his dogs, you
could have a nice quiet time."

"Bah! bah! a quiet time, sit with my arms folded. Goodness, no; I
would prefer to mend the family linen in the evening, in the
chimney-corner; that is not so tiresome. The days are so short in
winter."

At the words of Fleur-de-Marie, La Louve forgot more and more of the
present in these dreams of the future. La Louve did not conceal the
wild tastes with which her lover had inspired her. Fleur-de-Marie had
thought, with reason, that if her companion would suffer herself to be
sufficiently moved at this picture of a rough, poor, and solitary
life, to ardently desire to live such a one, this woman would deserve
interest and pity.

Enchanted at seeing her companion listen with curiosity, La Goualeuse
continued, smiling: "And, then you see _Madame Martial_--let me
call you so, what do you care?"

"On the contrary, it flatters me," said La Louve, shrugging her
shoulders, but smiling. "What folly--to play _Madame!_ What
children we are! Never mind, go on--it is amusing. You said, then----"

"I say, Madame Martial, that in speaking of your mode of living in
winter, in the woods, we only think of the worst part of the season."

"No, that is not the worst. To hear the wind whistle at night in the
forest, and from time to time the wolves howl, far off--far off; I
would not find it tiresome, not I, if I am alongside of a good fire,
with my man and my brats; or even all alone with my children, while he
is gone to make his rounds. Oh! a gun doesn't frighten me. If I had my
children to defend, I'd be good then. La Louve would take good care of
her cubs!"

"Oh! I believe you--you are very brave; but coward me prefers spring
to winter. Oh! the spring, Madame Martial, the spring! when the leaves
burst forth; when the pretty wood-flowers blossom, which smell so
good--so good, that the air is perfumed. Then it is that your children
will tumble gayly on the new grass, and the forest will become so
thick and bushy, that your house can hardly be seen for the foliage; I
think I can see it from here. There is a bower before the door that
your husband has planted, which shades the seat of turf where he
sleeps during the heat of the day, while you go and come, and tell the
children not to wake their father. I do not know if you have remarked
it, but at noon in the middle of summer, it is as silent in the woods
as during the night. Not a leaf stirs, not a bird is heard to sing."

"That is true," repeated La Louve, mechanically, who, forgetting more
and more the reality, believed almost that she saw displayed before
her eyes the smiling pictures described by the poetic imagination of
Fleur-de-Marie, instinctively a lover of the beauties of nature.

Delighted with the profound attention which her companion lent her,
she continued, allowing herself to be carried away by the charm of the
thoughts she evoked. "There is one thing that I like almost as well as
the silence of the woods; it is the patter of the large drops of rain
in the summer, falling on the leaves; do you like this also?"

"Oh yes--I like also, very much, the summer rain."

"When the trees, moss, and grass are all well moistened, what a fine
fresh odor! And then, how the sun, peeping through the trees, makes
all the drops of water sparkle which hang from the leaves after the
shower. Have you remarked this also?"

"Yes, but I didn't remember it till you told it me. How droll it is!
you tell it so well, La Goualeuse, that one seems to see everything as
you speak; and--I do not know how to explain this to you; but what you
have said--smells good--is refreshing--like the summer rain of which
you spoke."

Thus, like the beautiful and the good, poetry is often contagious. La
Louve's brutal and savage nature had to submit in everything to the
influence of Fleur-de-Marie. She added, smiling, "We must not believe
that we are alone in loving the summer rain. How happy the birds are!
how they shake their wings in warbling joyously--not more joyously,
however, than your children, free, gay, and lively as they are: see
how, at the close of day, the youngest runs through the woods to meet
his brother, who brings the heifers from the pasture; they soon heard
the tinkling of their bells."

"Why, La Goualeuse, it seems to me that I can see the smallest, yet
the boldest, who has been placed by his brother, who sustains him,
astride the back of one of the cows."

"And one would say that the poor beast knew what burden she was
bearing, she walks with so much precaution.

"But now it is supper time: your eldest, while the cattle were
grazing, has amused himself in filling a basket for you with wild
strawberries, which he has brought covered with violets."

"Strawberries and violets--oh! that must be a balm. But where the
mischief do you get such ideas, La Goualeuse?"

"In the woods, where the strawberries ripen, where the violets bloom;
it is only to look and collect, Madame Martial. But let us speak of
the housekeeping: it is night, you must milk your cows, prepare the
supper under the arbor, for you hear your husband's dogs bark, and
soon the voice of their master, who, tired as he is, comes home
singing. And why should he not sing, when, on a fine summer evening,
with a contented mind, he regains his house, where a good wife and
fine children await him?"

"True, one could not do otherwise than sing," said La Louve, becoming
more and more thoughtful.

"At least, if one does not weep from joy," continued Fleur-de-Marie,
herself affected. "And such tears are as sweet as songs. And then,
when night has closed in, what happiness to remain under the arbor, to
enjoy the serenity of a fine evening; to breathe the perfume of the
forest; to hear the children prattle; to look at the stars! Then the
heart is so full that it must be relieved by prayer. How not thank Him
to whom one owes the freshness of the night, the perfume of the woods,
the sweet light of the starry heavens? After these thanks or this
prayer, you go to sleep peacefully until the morning, and then again
you thank the Creator; for this poor, industrious, but calm and honest
life, is that of every day."

"Of every day!" repeated La Louve, her head on her bosom, her eyes
fixed, her breathing oppressed; "for it is true, God is good to give
us the power to live happy on so little."

"Well, now, say," continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently, "say, ought he not
be blessed and thanked next to Heaven, who would give you this
peaceful and industrious life, instead of the miserable one you lead
in the mud in the streets of Paris?"

The word "Paris" called La Louve to the reality.

A strange phenomenon had just been occurring in the mind, the soul of
this creature. A natural picture of an humble working life, a simple
recital, now lighted up by the soft glimmerings of a domestic
fireside, gilded by some joyous rays of the sun, refreshed by the
gentle winds of the forest, or perfumed by the odor of wild flowers,
had made on La Louve an impression more profound, more striking, than
all the exhortations of transcendent morality could have effected.
Yes, as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had yearned to be an
indefatigable housekeeper, an honest wife, a pious and devoted mother.
To inspire, even for a moment, a violent, immoral, degraded woman,
with a love of family, the respect of duty, the desire to labor,
gratitude toward the Creator, and that by promising her merely what
God gives to all, the sun of Heaven and the shade of the forest, what
man owes to the sweat of his brow, bread and shelter--was it not a
triumph for Fleur-de-Marie? Would the moralist the most severe, the
preacher the most fulminating, have obtained more by their menacing
threats of every vengeance, human and Divine?

The angry feelings shown by La Louve when she awoke from her dream to
the reality, showed the effects or influence of the words of her
companion. The more her regrets were bitter on awakening to the sense
of her horrible position, the more the triumph of the Goualeuse was
manifest.

After a moment of silent reflection, La Louve suddenly raised her
head, passed her hand over her face, and arose from her seat,
threatening and angry.

"You see that I had reason to avoid you, and not listen to you,
because it only does me harm! Why have you talked in this way to me?--
to laugh at me? to torment me? And because I was fool enough to tell
you that I would like to live in a forest with Martial! But who are
you, then? Why do you turn my head in this way? You do not know what
you have done, unlucky girl! Now in spite of myself, I shall always be
thinking of that wood, that house, those children, all that happiness,
which I never shall have--never, never! And if I cannot forget what
you have told me, my life will be a torment, a hell; and all by your
fault--yes, by your fault!"

"So much the better!--oh! so much the better!" said Fleur-de-Marie.

"You dare to say so?" cried La Louve, with threatening eyes.

"Yes, so much the better; for if your miserable mode of living from
henceforth proves a hell, you will prefer that of which I have
spoken."

"And what good for me to prefer it, since I cannot enjoy it? why
regret being a girl of the streets, since I must die one?" cried La
Louve, more and more irritated, seizing hold of the small hand of
Fleur-de-Marie. "Answer--answer! Why have you made me wish for a life
I cannot have?"

"To wish for an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of such a
life, I have told you," answered Fleur-de-Marie, without seeking to
disengage her hand.

"Well, what then, when I shall be worthy? what does it prove? how
advance me?"

"To see realized that which you regard as a dream," said Fleur-de-Marie,
in a voice so serious and convincing that La Louve, again
overpowered, abandoned the hand of La Goualeuse, and remained struck
with astonishment. "Listen to me, La Louve," added Marie, in a voice
full of compassion; "do not think me so cruel as to awaken in you
these thoughts, these hopes, if I were not sure, in making you ashamed
of your present condition, to give you the means to escape from it."

"You cannot do that!"

"I--no; but some one who is good, great, almost all-powerful."

"All-powerful?"

"Listen again, La Louve. Three months since, like you, I was a poor,
lost, abandoned creature. One day, he, of whom I speak with tears of
gratitude,"--Fleur-de-Marie wiped her tears--"came to me; he was not
afraid, debased and despised although I was, to speak to me words of
consolation--the first I ever heard! I told him my sufferings, misery,
and shame, without concealing anything, just as you have now related
to me your life, La Louve. After having listened to me with kindness,
he did not blame--but pitied me, he did not deride me for my
degradation, but extolled the happy and peaceful life of the country."

"Like you just now."

"Then my situation appeared the more frightful, as the possible future
which he pointed out seemed to me more enchanting."

"Like me also."

"Yes; and like you I said, 'What good, alas! to show this Paradise to
me, who am condemned to a hell upon earth?' But I was wrong to
despair; for he of whom I speak is sovereignly just, sovereignly good,
and incapable of causing a false hope to shine in the eyes of a poor
creature who asked neither pity, nor hope, nor happiness from any
one."

"And what did he do for you?"

"He treated me like a sick child; I was, like you, plunged in air
corrupt, he sent me to respire a salubrious and vivifying atmosphere;
I lived also among hideous and criminal beings; he confided me to
beings made after his own image, who have purified my soul, elevated
my mind; for, to all those he loves and respects, he gives a spark of
his celestial intelligence. Yes, if my words move you, La Louve, if my
tears cause your tears to flow, it is his mind, his thoughts inspire
me! if I speak to you of a future more happy, which you will obtain by
repentance, it is because I can promise you this future in his name,
although he is now ignorant of the engagement I make. In short, if I
say to you, 'Hope!' it is because he always hears the voice of those
who desire to become better; for God has sent him on this earth to
further the belief in Providence."

Thus speaking, the countenance of Fleur-de-Marie became glowing and
inspired; her pale cheeks were colored for a moment with a slight
carnation; her beautiful blue eyes softly sparkled; she beamed forth a
beauty so noble, so touching, that La Louve, profoundly affected at
this conversation, looked at her companion with admiration, and cried,
"Where am I? Do I dream? I have never heard nor seen anything like
this; it is not possible! but who are you, once more? oh! I said truly
that you were not one of us! But how is it that you who speak so well,
who can do so much, who know such powerful people, are here, a
prisoner with us? is it to tempt us? You are, then, for good--what the
devil is for evil!"

Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame Armand came and
interrupted her to conduct her to Madame d'Harvile. She said to La
Louve, who remained dumb from surprise, "I see with pleasure that the
presence of La Goualeuse in this prison has been beneficial to you and
your companions. I know that you have made a collection for poor Mont
Saint Jean; that is good and charitable, La Louve. It shall be
reckoned to you. I was sure that you were better than you appeared to
be. In recompense for your good action, I think I can promise you that
your imprisonment shall be abridged by many days." And Madame Armand
departed, followed by Fleur-de-Marie.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE PROTECTRESS.


The inspectress entered, with Goualeuse, the room where Clemence was;
the pale cheeks of the girl were slightly flushed from her earnest
conversation with La Louve.

"My lady the marchioness, pleased with the excellent accounts I have
given of you," said Madame Armand to Fleur-de-Marie, "desires to see
you, and perhaps will deign to obtain permission for you to leave here
before the expiration of your time."

"I thank you, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, to Madame
Armand, who left her alone with the noble lady.

Clemence, struck with the beautiful features of her _protegee_,
and her graceful and modest bearing, could not help remembering that
the Goualeuse had, in her sleep, pronounced the name of Rudolph, and
that the inspectress believed her to be preyed upon by a deep and
concealed love. Although perfectly convinced that the Grand Duke
Rudolph could not be in question, Clemence allowed that, at least in
point of beauty, La Goualeuse was worthy of the love of a prince. At
the sight of her protectress, whose expression, as we have said, was
that of ineffable goodness, Fleur-de-Marie felt herself irresistibly
drawn toward her.

"My child," said Clemence, "in praising much the sweetness of your
disposition and the exemplary propriety of your conduct, Madame Armand
complains of your want of confidence in her."

Fleur-de-Marie held down her head without replying.

"The peasant dress in which you were clothed when you were arrested,
your silence on the subject of where you resided before you came here,
prove that you conceal something."

"Madame--"

"I have no right to your confidence, my poor child; I wish to ask you
no improper questions; only I am assured, that if I ask your release
from prison it will be granted. Before I ask, I wish to talk with you
of your projects and resources for the future. Once free, what will
you do? If, as I doubt not, you are decided to follow in the good path
you have entered, have confidence in me--I will put you in a way to
gain your living honorably."

La Goualeuse was affected to tears at the interest Madame d'Harville
evinced for her. She said, after a moment's thought, "You deign,
madame, to show yourself so benevolent and generous, that I ought,
perhaps, to break the silence which I have hitherto preserved as to
the past. An oath compelled me."

"An oath?"

"Yes, madame; I have sworn to conceal from justice, and from the
persons employed in this prison, in what manner I have been brought
here; yet, if you will, madame, make me a promise--"

"What promise?"

"To keep my secret. I can, thanks to you, madame, without breaking my
oath, relieve some respectable people, who, doubtless, are very uneasy
about me."

"Count on my discretion; I will only tell what you authorize me to
say."

"Oh, thank you, madame! I feared so much that my silence toward my
benefactors would look like ingratitude."

The sweet tears of Fleur-de-Marie, her language, so well chosen,
struck Madame d'Harville with renewed astonishment.

"I cannot conceal from you," said she, "that your bearing, your words,
all astonish me much. How, with an education such as you appear to
have had, how could you---"

"Fall so low, madame?" said the Goualeuse, bitterly.

"Yes, alas!"

"It is but a short time since I received it. I owe it to a generous
protector, who, like you, madame, without knowing me, without ever
having the favorable accounts which they have given you here of me,
took compassion on me."

"And who is this protector?"

"I am ignorant, madame."

"You are ignorant?"

"He has only made himself known to me by his inexhaustible goodness.
Thanks to heaven! I found myself in his way."

"Where did you meet him?"

"One night, in the city, madame," said La Goualeuse, casting down her
eyes, "a man wanted to strike me; this unknown benefactor courageously
defended me. Such was my first encounter with him."

"He was, then, a man of the common order?"

"The first time I saw him he had their dress and language, but
afterward--"

"Afterward?"

"The manner in which he spoke to me, the profound respect shown him by
the people to whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had
disguised himself as one of the men who frequent the city."

"But for what purpose?"

"I do not know."

"And the name of this mysterious protector, do you know it?"

"Oh, yes, madame, thank heaven!" said Goualeuse, with warmth; "for I
can bless and adore without ceasing this name. My deliverer is known
as Rudolph, madame."

Clemence blushed deeply.

"And has he no other name?" asked she, quickly, of Fleur-de-Marie.

"I do not know, madame. At the farm where he sent me, he was only
known by the name of Rudolph."

"And his age?"

"He is still young, madame."

"And handsome?"

"Oh, yes! handsome, noble--as his heart."

The grateful, feeling manner with which Fleur-de-Marie pronounced
these words, caused a disagreeable sensation to Madame d'Harville. An
invincible, an inexplicable presentiment told her that this Rudolph
was the prince.

"The observations of the inspectress were well founded," thought
Clemence. "The Goualeuse loves Rudolph; it was his name she pronounced
in her sleep. Under what strange circumstances had the prince and this
poor girl met? Why did Rudolph go disguised into the city?" She could
not resolve these questions; only she remembered that Sarah had
formerly, wickedly and falsely, related to her some pretended
eccentricities of Rudolph, and of his strange amours. Was it not,
indeed, strange that he had taken from a life of misery this creature,
of ravishing beauty and of no common mind?

Clemence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, and she loved
Rudolph profoundly, although she had determined to bury this secret in
the very depths of her heart. Without reflecting that this, no doubt,
was one of those generous actions which the prince was accustomed to
do secretly; without reflecting that, perhaps, she confounded with
love a sentiment of warm gratitude; without reflecting, finally, that
of this sentiment, even if it were more tender, Rudolph might be
ignorant, the lady, in the first feeling of bitterness and injustice,
could not prevent herself considering the Goualeuse as a rival. Her
pride revolted in feeling that she blushed; that she suffered, in
spite of herself, at a rivalry so abject. She resumed, then, in a cold
manner, which cruelly contrasted with the affectionate benevolence of
her first words, "And how is it, girl, that your protector leaves you
in prison? How did you get here?"

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