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The Mysteries of Paris V2

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"It is true. To be beloved by so good a young man is very flattering,
is it not, M. Rudolph?"

"And some day, perhaps, you will participate in this love?"

"M. Rudolph, it is very trying; poor Germain is so much to be pitied!
I'll put myself in his place--if at the moment when I thought myself
abandoned, despised by all the world, a person, a good friend, came to
me, still more kind than I could hope for--I should be so happy!"
After a moment's pause, Rigolette resumed with a sigh, "On the other
hand, we are both so poor, that perhaps it would not be reasonable.
Look here, M. Rudolph, I do not wish to think of that; perhaps I am
mistaken; but I will do all I can for Germain, as long as he remains
in prison. Once free, it will always be time enough to see if it is
love or friendship I feel for him; then if it is love, neighbor, it
will be love. But it grows late, M. Rudolph; will you collect these
papers, while I make up a bundle of linen? Oh! I forgot the sachet
inclosing the little orange cravat, which I have given him. It is in
this drawer, without a doubt. Oh! see how pretty it is, all
embroidered! Poor Germain has guarded it like a relic! I well remember
the last time I wore it, and when I gave it to him. He was so happy,
so happy."

At this moment some one knocked at the door.

"Who is there?" demanded Rudolph.

"I want to speak to Madame Mathieu," answered a hoarse and husky
voice, with an accent which denoted the speaker to be one of the
lowest order. Madame Mathieu was a diamond broker living in this
house, who employed Morel.

This voice, singularly accented, awakened some vague recollections in
the mind of Rudolph. Wishing to enlighten them, he went and opened the
door. He found himself face to face with a fellow whom he recognized
at once, so fully and plainly was the stamp of crime marked on his
youthful and besotted face.

Either this wretch had forgotten the features of Rudolph, whom he had
seen only once, or the change of dress prevented him from recognizing
him, for he manifested no astonishment at his appearance.

"What do you want?" said Rudolph.

"Here is a letter for Madame Mathieu. I must give it into her own
hands," answered the man.

"She does not live here: inquire opposite," said Rudolph.

"Thank you, friend; they told me it was the door to the left; I am
mistaken."

Rudolph did not know the name of the diamond broker; he had therefore
no motive to interest himself about the woman to whom the rogue came
as a messenger. Nevertheless, although he was ignorant of the crimes
of this bandit, his face had such a guilty look of perversity, that he
remained on the threshold of the door, curious to see the person to
whom he brought this letter. Hardly had the man knocked at the
opposite door when it was opened, and the broker, a large woman of
about fifty years of age, appeared, holding a candle in her hand.

"Madame Mathieu?" said the messenger.

"That's my name."

"Here is a letter; I want an answer." He made a step in advance, as if
to enter the room; but she made a motion for him not to advance,
unsealed the letter, read it, and answered, with a satisfied air:

"You will say it is all right, my lad; I will bring what they wish; I
will go to-morrow at the same time as before. Give my compliments to
this lady."

"Yes, ma'am. Don't forget the messenger."

"Go ask those who sent you; they are richer than I am;" and she closed
the door.

Rudolph re-entered Germain's room, seeing the messenger rapidly
descending the staircase.

The latter met on the boulevard a man of a villainous and ferocious
appearance, who waited for him before a shop. Although several persons
might have heard him, but not understood him, it is true, he appeared
so much pleased that he could not help saying to his companion, "Come,
toss off your tipple, Nick! the old girl's toddled into the trap;
she'll meet Screech Owl; Mother Martial will give us a lift in
squeezing the sparklers out of her, and then we will carry the cold
meat away in your boat."

"Look sharp, then; I must be at Asnieres early; I am afraid my brother
Martial will suspect something." And the rogues, after having held
this conversation, quite unintelligible to those who might have heard
it, directed their steps toward the Rue Saint Denis.

A few moments after, Rigolette and Rudolph left the abode of Germain,
got into the carriage, and drove to the Rue du Temple. When the
carriage stopped, and the portress came to open the door, Rudolph saw
by the street light a friend of his, who was waiting for him at the
passage door.

That presence announced some great event, or, at least, something
unexpected, for he alone knew where to find the prince.

"What is the matter, Murphy?" said Rudolph, quickly, while Rigolette
collected the papers in the vehicle.

"A great misfortune, your highness!"

"Speak, for Heaven's sake!"

"The Marquis d'Harville."

"You alarm me!"

"He gave a breakfast this morning to several of his friends.
Everything was going off well; he, above all, had never been more gay,
when a fatal imprudence--"

"Go on, go on!"

"In playing with a pistol which he did not know was loaded--"

"He has wounded himself?"

"Worse!"

"Well?"

"Something very terrible!"

"What do you say?"

"He is dead!"

"D'Harville! oh, this is frightful!" cried Rudolph in such a heart-rending
tone, that Rigolette, who had just descended from the carriage
with her bundles, said: "What is the matter, M. Rudolph?"

"Some very bad news that I have just told my friend, mademoiselle,"
said Murphy to the girl, for the prince was so much affected that he
could not answer.

"Is it some really great misfortune?" asked Rigolette, tremblingly.

"A very great misfortune," answered the other.

"Oh! this is frightful!" said Rudolph, after a silence of some
moments; then, recollecting Rigolette, he said to her: "Pardon me, my
child, if I do not go with you to your room; to-morrow I will send you
my address, and a permit to go to Germain's prison. I will soon see
you again."

"Oh! M. Rudolph, I assure you I am very sorry for the bad news you
have heard. I thank you for having accompanied me to-night. Good-bye."

The prince and Murphy got into the coach, which took them to the Rue
Plumet.

Immediately Rudolph wrote to Clemence the following note:

"Madame,--I learn this moment the unexpected blow which has
overwhelmed you, and takes from me one of my best friends: I shall not
endeavor to describe my sorrow.

"Yet I must inform you of things foreign to this cruel event. I have
just learned that your step-mother, who has been for some days in
Paris, without doubt, leaves to-night for Normandy, taking with her
Polidori, alias Bradamanti. This will tell you of the dangers your
father is threatened with, and allow me to give you some advice. After
the frightful affair of this morning, your desire to leave Paris will
be nothing extraordinary. So set off at once for Aubiers, to arrive
there, if not before, at least as soon as your step-mother. Be
assured, madame, far or near, I shall still watch over you; the
abominable projects of your step-mother shall be baffled.

"Adieu, madame: I write this in haste. My heart is almost broken when
I think of last evening, when I left him more tranquil, more happy,
than he had been for a long time.

"Believe me, madame, in my profound and sincere devotion.

"RUDOLPH."

Following this advice, Madame d'Harville, three hours after the
receipt of this letter, was on the road to Normandy. A post-chaise,
which left Rudolph's, followed the same route.

Unfortunately, from the trouble into which she was plunged by this
complication of events, and the precipitation of her departure,
Clemence forgot to acquaint the prince that she had met Fleur-de-Marie
at Saint Lazare.

It will be remembered, perhaps, that the evening previous, La Chouette
had threatened Mrs. Seraphin to disclose the fact of the existence of
La Goualeuse, affirming that she knew (and she told the truth) where
the young girl then was. It will also be remembered that after this
conversation Jacques Ferrand, fearing the revelation of his criminal
misdeeds, had determined that it was for his interest to put the
Goualeuse out of the way, whose existence, once known, might
compromise him dangerously. He had, therefore, caused to be written to
Bradamanti a note to summon him to come and hatch some new schemes, of
which Fleur-de-Marie was to be the victim.

Bradamanti, occupied with the interests, not less pressing, of the
stepmother of Madame d'Harville, who had her own reasons for
conducting the quack to the bedside of M. d'Orbigny, doubtless finding
it more to his advantage to serve his old friend, paid no attention to
the invitation of the notary, and set out for Normandy without seeing
Mrs. Seraphin.

The storm gathered around Jacques Ferrand; in the course of the day La
Chouette had returned to reiterate her threats, and, to prove that
they were not in vain, she had declared to the notary that the little
girl, formerly abandoned by Mrs. Seraphin, was then a prisoner at
Saint Lazare, under the name of La Goualeuse, and that if they did not
give her ten thousand francs in three days, this girl should receive
some papers which would inform her that she had been in her infancy
confided to the care of Jacques Ferrand.

According to his custom, the notary denied all this with audacity, and
drove off La Chouette as an impudent liar, although he was convinced
and frightened by her threats.

In the course of the day the notary found means to assure himself that
the Goualeuse was a prisoner at Saint Lazare, and so noted for her
good conduct that her release was expected soon.

Furnished with this information, Jacques Ferrand, having arranged a
most diabolical scheme, felt that, to execute it, the assistance of
Bradamanti was more and more indispensable; hence the frequent
attempts of Mrs. Seraphin to see the quack. Learning the same evening
of his departure, forced to act by the imminence of his fears and
danger, he remembered the Martial family--those river pirates
established near Asnieres Bridge, to whom Bradamanti had proposed to
send Louise Morel, in order to get rid of her with impunity.

Having absolutely need of an accomplice, to carry out his wicked
designs against Fleur-de-Marie, the notary took every precaution, in
the case a new crime should be committed; and the next morning, after
the departure of Bradamanti for Normandy, Mrs. Seraphin went in great
haste to see the Martials.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE RIVER PIRATE'S HAUNT.


The following scenes took place on the evening of the day that Mrs.
Seraphin had, according to the notary's orders, paid a visit to the
Martials, established on the point of a small island, not far from
Asnieres Bridge. Martial, the father, who had died on the scaffold
like his own father, left a widow, four sons, and two daughters. The
second of these sons was already condemned to the galleys for life. Of
this numerous family there remained on the island the mother; three
sons; the eldest (the lover of La Louve) twenty-five, the other
twenty, the youngest twelve; two daughters; one eighteen, the second
nine. Instances of such families, wherein is perpetuated a kind of
frightful inheritance in crime, are but too frequent. This must be so,
because society thinks only of punishing, never of preventing the
evil.

The gloomy picture which follows, of the river pirates, has for its
object to show what, in a family, inheritance of evil may be, when
society either legally or kindly does not interfere to preserve the
unfortunate, orphaned by the law, from the terrible consequences of
the judgment visited on their father.

The head of the Martial family, who had first settled on this little
island, was a dredger (_ravageur_).

They, as well as the _debardeurs_, and the _dechireurs_ of
boats, remain almost the entire day plunged in the water to their
waists, to follow their trade.

The _debardeurs_ bring to land floating wood.

The _dechireurs_ knock to pieces the rafts which bring down the
wood. Quite as aquatic as the preceding operatives, the labor of
_ravageurs_ has a very different object. Advancing in the water
as far as they can, they are enabled, by means of long rakes, to drag
the mud and sand from the bed of the river; then, collecting this in
large wooden bowls, they wash it, and thus collect a large quantity of
pieces of metal of all kinds, iron, copper, lead, and brass.

Often they find in the sand fragments of gold or silver jewels,
carried into the Seine either by the gutters or from the masses of
snow and ice collected in the streets in winter and thrown into the
river. We do not know by virtue of what tradition, or by what usage,
these industrious people, generally honest, peaceable, and laborious,
are so formidably named.

Old Martial first inhabitant of the island, being a ravageur (a sorry
exception), the people living on the banks of the river called it the
ravageur's island.

The dwelling of the river pirates is situated at the south end of the
isle. On a sign which hangs near the door can be seen:

"THE DREDGERS' ARMS.
Good Wines, Fish fried and boiled.
Boats to Let."

It will be seen that to his other business the head of this family
had added an innkeeper's, fisherman's, and the keeping of boats for
hire. The widow of this executed criminal continued to keep the house.
Vagabonds, wandering quacks, and itinerate keepers of animals came to
pass Sundays and other non-working days in parties of pleasure.

Martial (the lover of La Louve), the eldest son of the family, least
vicious of all, fished by stealth, and, for pay, took the part of the
weak against the strong.

One of his brothers, Nicholas, the future accomplice of Barbillon in
the murder of the diamond broker, was apparently a ravageur, but in
fact a pirate along the Seine and its banks. Finally, Francois, the
youngest son, took care of those who wished to go boating.

We will just mention Ambrose Martial, imprisoned for life for robbery
and attempt at murder The eldest girl, nicknamed Calabash, assisted
her mother in the kitchen and to wait upon the guests; her sister,
Amandine, aged nine years, gave what aid she could to them.

On this night, thick, heavy clouds, driven by the winds, obscured the
sky; hardly one star could be seen through the increasing gloom. The
house, with its irregular gables, was completely buried in darkness,
except the two windows of the ground-floor, from which streamed a red
light, reflected like long trains of fire on the troubled waters near
the landing-place, close to the house. The chains of the boats moored
there mingled their rattling with the mournful sighing of the wind
through the poplars, and the heavy splashing of the water on the
shore. Part of the family was assembled in the kitchen, a large, low
room; opposite the door were two windows, between which was a large
dresser; on the left, a high fireplace; to the right, a staircase
which led to the upper story; at the side of this, the entrance to a
large room, furnished with several tables, destined for the guests.
The light of a lamp, joined to the flames of the hearth, shone on a
number of saucepans and other cooking utensils of copper, hung on the
walls, or arranged on shelves with crockery; a large table stood in
the center of the kitchen. The widow was seated by the fire with her
three children. Tall and thin, she appeared to be about forty-five
years of age. She was dressed in black; a mourning kerchief, tied
round her head with two loose ear-like ends, concealed her hair, and
almost covered her pale, wrinkled forehead; her nose was long,
straight, and pointed; her cheek-bones prominent, and cheeks fallen
in; her yellow, sickly-looking skin was deeply marked with the small-pox;
the corner of her mouth, always drawn down, rendered still harsher
the expression of her cold, stern, sinister-looking face, immovable
as a mask of marble. Her dull blue eyes were surmounted by gray
brows. She and her two daughters were occupied with some sewing.

The eldest resembled her mother--the same cold, calm, wicked look; her
thin nose, mouth, and pale look. Only her earthy skin, yellow as
saffron, gave her the nickname of Calabash. She wore no mourning: her
dress was brown; her black lace cap displayed two bands of uncommonly
light flaxen hair, with no luster. Francois, the youngest son, was
seated on a bench, mending a small mesh, a very destructive sort of
fishing net, strictly forbidden use on the Seine. Notwithstanding his
sunburned appearance, his skin was fair; red hair covered his head;
his features were well turned, his lips thick, his forehead
projecting, his eyes sharp and piercing: there was no resemblance to
his mother or eldest sister. His expression was timid yet cunning;
from time to time, through, the kind of mane which fell over his face,
he cast obliquely on his mother a look of defiance, or exchanged with
his sister Amandine a glance of intelligence and affection.

She, seated by his side, was occupied, not in marking, but in
unmarking some linen stolen the night previous. She was nine years
old, and resembled her brother as much as her sister did her mother;
her features, without being any more regular, were less coarse than
Francois'; although covered with freckles, her skin was of dazzling
purity; her lips were thick, but vermilion, her hair red, but fine,
silky, and brilliant; her eyes small, but soft and expressive.

When they exchanged looks, Amandine pointed to the door; at the sign
Francois answered by a sigh; then, calling the attention of his sister
by a rapid gesture, he counted distinctly from the end of his netting
needle ten threads of the net. This meant, in their own symbolical
language, that their brother Martial would not return before ten
o'clock.

On seeing these two quiet, wicked-looking women, and these two poor,
restless, mute, trembling little children, one could easily guess they
were two tormentors and two victims.

Calabash, noticing that Amandine had ceased a moment from work, said
to her, in a harsh voice, "Will you soon have done with that chemise?"

The child held down her head without replying; with fingers and
scissors, she quickly finished picking out the marks made with red
cotton, and then handing the work to her mother, said timidly, "Mamma,
I have finished it."

Without making any reply, the widow threw her another piece of linen.
The child could not catch it in time, and let it fall. Her sister gave
her, with her iron hand, a heavy slap on the arm, saying "Little
stupid fool!"

Amandine resumed her work, after having exchanged a hasty glance with
her brother; a tear glistened in her eye. The same silence continued
to reign in the kitchen. The wind howled without, and the sign creaked
mournfully on its hinges. The only sounds within were the bubbling of
a saucepan placed before the fire. The two children observed with
secret alarm that their mother did not speak. Although she was
habitually very quiet, this complete taciturnity and certain
contractions of her lips announced that the widow was in that which
they called her white rage, that is to say, a prey to some
concentrated irritation.

The fire appeared to be going out from want of fuel.

"Francois, a stick of wood!" said Calabash.

The young net-mender looked behind the chimney-piece, and answered,
"There is no more there."

"Go to the wood-pile," said Calabash.

Francois murmured some unintelligible words, but did not stir.

"Francois, did you hear me?" said Calabash sharply.

The widow placed on her knees a napkin, which she was unmarking, and
looked at her son.

He had his head down, but he thought he felt the terrible look of his
mother was upon him. Fearing to meet her formidable face, the child
remained immovable.

"Are you deaf, Francois'?" resumed Calabash, much irritated.

"Mother--do you see?"

Amandine, without being perceived, nudged her brother to urge him
tacitly to obey Calabash. Francois did not stir. The eldest sister
looked at her mother, as if to demand the punishment of the offender.
The widow understood her, and pointed with her long, bony finger to a
long willow switch, which stood in the corner.

Calabash leaned back, took this instrument of correction, and handed
it to her mother.

Francois had perfectly understood the gesture of his mother; he jumped
up quickly, and with one bound was out of his mother's reach.

"You want mother to beat you soundly?" cried Calabash, "do you?"

The widow, holding the rod in her hand, bit her lips, and looked at
Francois with a steady eye, without pronouncing a word. From the
slight agitation of Amandine's hands, who sat with her head down,
while her neck was suffused with red, it could be seen that the child,
although accustomed to such scenes, was alarmed at the fate which
awaited her brother, who, having taken refuge in a corner of the
kitchen, seemed alarmed and yet rebellious.

"Take care of yourself; mother will get up, and then it will be too
late," said Calabash.

"All the same to me," answered Francois, turning pale. "I prefer to be
beaten, as I was yesterday, to going to the wood-pile at night."

"And why?" said Calabash, impatiently.

"I am afraid of the wood-pile!" answered Francois, shuddering in spite
of himself.

"You are afraid, fool! of what?"

Francois hung his head without answering.

"Will you speak? What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know; but I'm afraid."

"You have been there a hundred times, and even last night?"

"I don't want to go there any more."

"There's mother; she's getting up."

"So much the worse for me," cried the child. "Let her beat me; let her
kill me; but I will not go to the wood-pile--at night, above all."

"But, once more, I ask you, why not?" said Calabash.

"Well, because there's some one--"

"Some one?"

"Buried there," murmured the trembling boy.

The widow, notwithstanding her impassibility, could not repress a
slight shudder; her daughter imitated her; one would have said that
the two had received an electric shock.

"Some one buried in the wood-house!" said Calabash, shrugging her
shoulders.

"Yes," said Francois, in a voice so low that he could hardly be heard.

"Liar!" cried Calabash.

"I tell you that not long ago, while piling the wood, I saw, in a dark
corner of the wood-house, a dead man's bone; it stuck out of the
ground, which was damp round about," replied Francois.

"Do you hear him, mother? Is he not a fool?" said Calabash, making a
significant sign to the widow. "They are some mutton bones I threw
there."

"It was not a mutton bone," answered the child; "it was bones buried--
dead men's bones: a foot which stuck out of the ground. I saw it."

"And you instantly told this to your brother, your good friend
Martial--did you not?" said Calabash. Francois did not answer.

"Wicked little spy!" cried Calabash, furiously. "Because he is as
cowardly as a cow, he will get us guillotined, as father was."

"Since you call me a spy," cried Francois, exasperated, "I shall tell
everything to Martial. I have not told him yet, for I have not seen
him since; but when he returns to-night, I--"

The child dared not finish, for his mother advanced toward him, calm
but inexorable. Although she habitually held herself much bent over,
her size was very large for a woman. Holding the switch in one hand,
with the other the widow took her son by the arm, and, in spite of the
alarm, resistance, prayers, and tears of the child, dragging him after
her, she compelled him to mount the stairs. In a moment was heard the
sound of heavy blows, mingled with cries and sobs. When this noise
ceased, a door was shut violently, and the widow descended. She placed
the whip in its place, seated herself alongside of the fire, and
resumed her work without saying a word.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE PIRATES.


After a few moments' silence, the widow said to her daughter, "Go and
get some wood; we will arrange the woodhouse to-night, on the return
of Nicholas and Martial."

"Martial! Will you also tell him that?"

"Some wood," repeated the widow, interrupting her daughter.

She, accustomed to this iron will, lighted a lantern and went out. At
the moment she opened the door it could be seen that the night was
very dark, and one could hear the whistling of the wind through the
poplars, the clanging of the chains which held the boats, and the wash
of the river. These noises were profoundly sad.

During the preceding scene, Amandine, painfully affected at the fate
of Francois, whom she loved tenderly, had dared neither to raise her
eyes nor wipe her tears, which fell drop by drop obscuring her sight.
In her haste to finish the work which was given her, she had wounded
her hand with the scissors; the blood flowed freely, but the poor
child thought less of the pain than the punishment which she might
expect for having stained the linen with her blood. Happily, the
widow, absorbed in profound thought, perceived nothing. Calabash
returned bringing a basket filled with wood. At a look from her
mother, she answered by a nod, intended to say that the dead man's
foot did appear above the earth.

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