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The Mysteries of Paris V2

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"Calm yourself, my child," said Madame Armand, kindly: "happily, such
shocks are without danger."

"Ah, madame, how grateful I ought to be!"

"It is, doubtless, Madame d'Harville who has obtained your liberty.
There is an old lady here who is charged to conduct you to your
friends. Wait for me; I will return for you; I have a few words to say
in the workroom." It would be difficult to describe the expression of
deep grief which spread over the features of Mont Saint Jean on
learning that her good angel was to leave Saint Lazare.

The grief of this woman was caused less by the fear of a renewal of
her torments, than by the sorrow at parting from the sole being who
had ever evinced any interest for her. Still seated at the foot of the
bench, she took bold of the two tufts of tangled hair which escaped
from under her old black cap, as if to tear them out; then, this
violent affliction giving way to dejection, she let her head fall, and
remained dumb and immovable, with her face buried in her hands.

Notwithstanding her joy at leaving the prison, Fleur-de-Marie could
not prevent a shudder at the remembrance of La Chouette and the Maître
d'Ecole; recollecting that these two monsters had made her swear not
to inform her benefactors of her sad fate.

But these sad thoughts were soon dispelled at the hope of seeing
Bouqueval, Madame George, and Rudolph again; to the latter she wished
to recommend La Louve and Martial; it even seemed to her that the
sentiment which she reproached herself for having felt towards her
benefactor, being no longer nourished by sorrow and by solitude, would
be calmed and modified as soon as she should resume the rustic
occupations which she loved so much to partake with the good and
honest inhabitants of the farm.

Astonished at the silence of her companion, of which she did not
suspect the cause, she touched her slightly on the shoulder, and said,

"Mont Saint Jean, since I am now free, can I be of any service to
you?"

On feeling the hand of La Goualeuse, the prisoner shuddered, let her
arms fall, and turned toward the young girl, her face streaming with
tears.

"Listen to me, Mont Saint Jean," said Fleur-de Marie, touched at the
affection of this poor creature. "I can promise you nothing for
yourself, although I know some very charitable people; but for your
child it is different; it is innocent of every evil; he, and the
persons of whom I speak, would, perhaps, take the charge of it when
you can part with it."

"Part from it--never, oh, never!" cried Mont Saint Jean, with warmth.
"What would become of me then, now that I have counted on him?"

"But how will you support it? son or daughter, it must be honest, and
for that----"

"It must eat honest bread, is it not so, La Goualeuse? I think so; it
is my ambition. I say it to myself every day, thus: on leaving here I
shall not let the grass grow under my feet. I will become a rag-picker,
a crossing-sweeper, but I'll be correct; one owes that, if not
to one's self, at least to one's children, when one has the honor of
having any," said she with a kind of pride. "And who will take care of
your child while you work?" answered La Goualeuse; "would it not be
better, if that is possible, as I hope it is, to place it in the
country with some good people, who would make it a good farmer's girl
or a plowboy? You can come from time to time to see it, and some day,
perhaps, you would find the means to remain altogether--in the country
it costs so little to live."

"But to part with it, to part with it! All my joy is in it. I, who
have no one to love me!" "You must think more for it than for
yourself, my poor Mont Saint Jean; in two or three days I will write
to Madame Armand, and if the demand I mean to make in favor of your
child succeeds, you will never have occasion to say again, what you
said just now, 'Alas! what will become of it?'"

The inspectress, Madame Armand, interrupted this conversation; she
came to seek Fleur-de-Marie.

After having again burst into sobs, and bathed with tears of despair
the hands of the girl, Mont Saint Jean fell back on the bench quite
overcome with sorrow, not even thinking of the promise just made to
her by Fleur-de-Marie.

"Poor creature!" said Madame Armand, leaving the yard, followed by La
Goualeuse; "poor creature, her gratitude toward you gives me a better
opinion of her."

On learning that Fleur-de-Marie was pardoned, the other prisoners,
instead of being jealous, expressed their joy; some of them surrounded
her, and bade her farewell in a cordial manner, congratulating her
frankly on her quick deliverance from prison.

"All the same," said one of them, "she has made us do some good; it
was when we collected for Mont Saint Jean. This will be remembered in
Saint Lazare."

When Fleur-de-Marie had left the prison buildings under the conduct of
the inspectress, the latter said to her, "Now, my child, go to the
wardrobe, where you will leave your prison garments, and resume the
peasant's costume, which, from its rustic simplicity, becomes you so
well; adieu. You go to be happy, for you go under the protection of
worthy people, and you leave this house never to return. But--hold--I
am not unreasonable," said Madame Armand, whose eyes were bathed in
tears, "it is impossible for me to conceal from you how much I am
already attached to you, poor child!" Then, seeing Fleur-de-Marie much
affected, she added, "You do not wish me thus to sadden your
departure?"

"Ah! madame, is it not to your recommendation that this young lady, to
whom I owe my liberty, interested herself in my fate?"

"Yes, and I am happy at what I have done; my presentiments have not
deceived me." At this moment a bell rang. "Ah! this is the signal for
them to resume their work; I must go in. Adieu! once more adieu, my
dear child!"

And Madame Armand, quite as much affected as Fleur-de-Marie, embraced
her tenderly; she then said to one of the attendants, "Conduct her to
the wardrobe."

A quarter of an hour afterward, Fleur-de-Marie, clothed as a peasant,
entered the office where Mrs. Seraphin awaited her. This woman,
housekeeper of Jacques Ferrand, came to take the unfortunate child to
Ravageur's Island.




CHAPTER XXXII.

REMEMBRANCES.


Jacque Ferrand had easily and promptly obtained the liberty of
Fleur-de-Marie.

Instructed by La Chouette of the sojourn of La Goualeuse in Saint
Lazare, he had immediately addressed himself to one of his clients, an
influential man, telling him that a girl, led astray but sincerely
repentant, and recently confined in Saint Lazare, ran the risk, from
contact with the other prisoners, of having her good resolutions
weakened. This girl had been strongly recommended to him by some
respectable people, who would take charge of her as soon as she left
the prison. Jacques Ferrand had added, he begged his all-powerful
client, in the name of morality, of religion, and of the future
rehabilitation of this unfortunate, to solicit her discharge. Finally,
the notary, so as to completely conceal his part in the transaction,
particularly requested his client not to name him in the
accomplishment of this good work; this wish, attributed to the
philanthropic modesty of Jacques Ferrand, was scrupulously observed;
the release of Fleur-de-Marie was demanded and obtained solely in the
name of the client, who, as soon as it was received, sent it to
Jacques Ferrand that he might address it to the protectors of the
girl.

Mrs. Seraphin, on giving this order to the directors of the prison,
added that she was charged to conduct La Goualeuse to her friends.
From the excellent account given by the inspectress to Madame
d'Harville, no one doubted that she owed her freedom to the
intervention of the marchioness. Thus the notary's housekeeper could
in no way excite the suspicions of her victim.

Mrs. Seraphin had, as occasion required, the air of a good soul; it
required very close observation to remark something insidious, false
and cruel in her crafty look, her hypocritical smile.

In spite of her profound wickedness, which had made her the accomplice
or confidante of her master's crimes, Mrs. Seraphin could not help
being struck with the touching beauty of this girl, delivered by
herself when quite a child to La Chouette, whom she was then about to
conduct to certain death.

"Well, my dear," said she, in honeyed tones, "you must be delighted to
get out of prison."

"Oh! yes, ma'am; and, doubtless, I owe my deliverance to the
protection of Madame d'Harville, who has been so kind to me?"

"You are not mistaken. But come, we are rather late, and we have got a
long road to travel."

"We are going to Bouqueval Farm, to Madame George, ma'am?" cried La
Goualeuse.

"Yes, certainly, we are going to the country--to Madame George," said
the housekeeper, to drive away every suspicion from the mind of
Fleur-de-Marie; then she added, with malicious good nature, "But this is
not all; before you see Madame George, a little surprise awaits you.
Come, come, our hack is below. What delight you must feel at leaving
this place, dear. Come, let us go. Your servant, sirs." And Mrs. Seraphin,
after having exchanged salutations with the warders, descended with La
Goualeuse, followed by an officer to open the doors. The last one was
closed on the two females, and they found themselves under the large
porch which faces the Rue du Faubourg Saint Denis, when they met a
girl who was coming, doubtless, to visit a prisoner. It was Rigolette,
ever neat and coquettish. A little plain cap, very clean, and trimmed
with cherry-colored ribbons, which harmonized wonderfully with her
jet-black hair, surrounded her pretty face; a very white collar was
turned over her long brown tartan. She carried on her arm a straw
basket, and, thanks to her neat and graceful manner of walking, her
thick-soled boots were of marvelous cleanliness, although she came,
alas, very far.

"Rigolette!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, at once recognizing her.

"La Goualeuse!" exclaimed the grisette in her turn. And the girls
threw themselves into each other's arms. Nothing could be more
enchanting than the contrast between these young creatures of sixteen,
tenderly embracing, both so charming, and yet so different in
expression and beauty. The one fair, with large, blue, melancholy
eyes, and a profile of angelic pureness; the other a lively brunette,
with round and rosy cheeks, pretty black eyes, a charming picture of
youth and gayety, a rare and touching example of happiness in
indigence, of virtue in destitution, and of joy in industry.

When Fleur-de-Marie, dragged up, rather than brought up, had run away
from a hag known as Old One-eye, she had been arrested and committed
to prison for eight years. Taught sewing there, she had saved up some
three hundred francs. Ignorant, childishly fond of flowers and the
open air of the country, she had made Rigolette's acquaintance, with
hardly a deeper object than to have a companion in her jaunts. Her
money spent, Fleur-de-Marie had fallen in with the Ogress, the keeper
of the Lapin Blanc Tavern, who had kept her for the sinful purposes
which had blemished all her life.

After an exchange of their mutual caresses, the girls looked at each
other. Rigolette was joyful at the encounter, Fleur-de-Marie confused.

The sight of her friend recalled to her mind the few days of calm
enjoyment which had preceded her first degradation. "It is you--what
happiness!" said the grisette.

"Goodness me! what a delightful surprise, it is so long since we have
seen one another," answered La Goualeuse.

"Oh! now I am no longer astonished at not having met you for six
months," remarked Rigolette, observing the rustic clothes of La
Goualeuse; "you live in the country?"

"Yes, since some time," said Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes.

"And you come, like me, to see some one in prison?"

"Yes--I came--I came to see some one," answered Fleur-de-Marie,
stammering and blushing with shame.

"And you are returning home, far from Paris, without doubt. Dear
little Goualeuse, always good, I recognize you there. Do you remember
the poor woman to whom you gave your mattress, linen, and the small
amount of money you had, which we were about to spend in the country?
for then you were crazy after the country, you little village girl!"

"And you did not like it much, Rigolette. How kind you were, for it
was on my account you went."

"And for mine also; for you, who were always a little serious, became
so contented, gay, and lively, once in the midst of the fields or
woods; if it were only to see you there, it was pleasure to me. But
let me look at you again! How this little round cap becomes you! how
pretty you look. Decidedly, it was your vocation to wear a peasant's
cap, as it was mine to wear the grisette's. Now you are according to
your wishes, you must be happy, it does not surprise me. When I did
not see you any more, I said to myself, 'Good little Goualeuse is not
made for Paris; she is a real flower of the forest, as the song says,
and these flowers cannot live in the capital; the air is not good
enough for them. La Goualeuse has got a place with some good people in
the country.' This is what you have done, is it not?"

"Yes," said Fleur-de-Marie, blushing.

"Only I have a reproach to make you."

"To me?"

"You should have advised me; one does not leave in this way, at least,
without sending some word."

"I--I left Paris so quick," said Fleur-de-Marie, more and more
confused, "that I could not."

"Oh! I did not wish it; I am too happy to see you again. In truth, you
did right to leave Paris, it is so difficult to live here quietly,
without reckoning that a poor girl, isolated as we are, might turn to
evil without wishing it. When one has nobody to advise with, one has
so few means of defense; the men make such fine promises; and then,
sometimes poverty is so hard. Do you remember little Julie, who was so
pretty? and Rosine, the blonde with black eyes?"

"Yes, I recollect them."

"Well! my poor Goualeuse, they have both been deceived, then
abandoned, and, finally, from misfortune, to misfortune, they have
fallen to be such wretched women as are shut up here."

"Oh!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, who held down her head and became purple
with shame.

Rigolette, deceived in the sense of the exclamation of her friend,
resumed: "Don't be as sad as me, don't cry."

"You have sorrows?"

"I? Oh, you know me, a regular Roger Bontemps. I am not changed, but,
unfortunately, everybody is not like me; and as others have their
troubles, that causes me to have some."

"Always kind!"

"Now just imagine, I came here for a poor girl--a neighbor--a very
lamb, who is accused wrongfully, and much to be pitied; she is Louise
Morel, daughter of an honest workman who has become crazy from his
misfortunes." At the name of Louise Morel, one of the victims of the
notary, Mrs. Seraphin shuddered and looked at Rigolette attentively.
The face of the grisette was absolutely unknown to her; nevertheless,
from that moment she paid great attention to the conversation.

"Poor thing," replied the songstress, "how happy she must be at your
not forgetting her in her trouble."

"This is not all--it is a fatality, just as you met me, I came a great
distance--and from another prison--a prison for men."

"You?"

"Oh! yes, I have there another very sad friend. You see my basket"
(and she showed it) "is divided in two; each one has a side; to-day I
bring Louise a little linen, and just now I carried something to poor
Germain; my prisoner is called Germain. I cannot think of what has
just passed between us without having a desire to weep; it is foolish--I
know it is of no use, but indeed, it is my nature."

"And why do you feel like weeping?"

"Only think, Germain is so unfortunate as to be associated with all
the prison rogues; it quite overcomes him; he has a taste for nothing,
eats nothing, and is growing thinner every day. I saw that, and I said
to myself, 'He is not hungry; I will make him a nice little dainty
bit, which he liked so much when he was my neighbor; that will give
him an appetite.' When I say a dainty bit, just understand me, it was
just some nice potatoes, mashed up with a little milk and sugar; I
filled a pretty cup with it, and just now I took it to him in prison,
telling him that I had prepared this myself, just as I used to do in
our happy days--you understand; I thought, perhaps, I could thus
induce him to eat, but it caused him to weep; when he saw the cup in
which I had so often taken my milk before him, he burst into tears;
and, more than the bargain, I finished by doing as he did, although I
tried all I could to prevent it; you see my luck. I thought I was
doing good--consoling him, and I made him more sad than before."

"Yes, but those tears must have been so sweet to him?"

"All the same, I should have preferred to console him differently; but
I speak of him without telling you who he is; he was an old neighbor
of mine, the most honest lad in the world, as gentle and timid as a
young girl, and whom I loved as a companion, as a brother."

"Oh! then I can imagine how his sorrows are yours."

"But you will see what a good heart he has. When I left him, I asked
him, as I always do, for his commissions, saying to him with a laugh,
just to raise his spirits a little, that I was his little housekeeper,
and that I should be very exact, very active, to keep his custom. Then
he, trying to smile, asked me to bring him one of the romances of
Walter Scott, which he used to read to me in the evenings when I
worked. This romance is called 'Ivan--Ivanhoe:' yes, that is the name.
I liked this book so much, that he read it to me twice. He begged me
to go to the same library, not to hire, but to buy the volumes we used
to read together--yes, to buy them--and you may judge it is a
sacrifice for him, for he is as poor as we are."

"Excellent heart!" said Goualeuse, quite affected.

"There! you are as much moved as I was, when he gave me this
commission, my good little Goualeuse; but you comprehend, the more I
felt a desire to weep, the more I tried to laugh; for to weep twice in
a visit made expressly to enliven him was too much. So to drive this
gloom away, I recalled to his mind the comic story of a Jew, one of
the characters of this romance, which formerly had so much amused us.
But the more I talked, the more he looked at me with the big, big
tears in his eyes. It touched my heart. I had restrained my tears for
a quarter of an hour; I ended by doing as he did. When I left him he
was sobbing; and I said to myself, furious at my stupidity, 'If this
is the way I cheer and console him, it is hardly worth while to go and
see him; I, who promised myself to make him laugh! It is astonishing
how I have succeeded!'"

At the name of Francois Germain, Mrs. Seraphin redoubled her
attention.

"And what has this young man done to be in prison?" asked
Fleur-de-Marie.

"He!" cried Rigolette, whose compassion gave place to indignation; "he
is persecuted by an old monster of a notary, who is also the denouncer
of Louise."

"Of Louise, whom you came here to see?"

"The same. She was the servant of the notary, and Germain was his
cashier. It would be too long a story to tell you of what they
unjustly accuse this poor boy. But what is quite sure is, that this
bad man is very angry with these two unfortunates, who have never
injured him. But patience--patience; every dog has his day."

Rigolette pronounced these last words with an expression which made
Mrs. Seraphin uneasy. Engaging in the conversation, instead of
remaining quiet, she said to Fleur-de-Marie in a wheedling manner, "My
dear child, it is late; we must go; we are waited for. I can well
comprehend that what your friend says interests you, for I, who do not
know this young girl and this young man, am much affected. Is it
possible people can be so wicked! And what is the name of this bad
notary of whom you speak, please?"

Rigolette had no reason to be suspicious of Mrs. Seraphin;
nevertheless, remembering the recommendations of Rudolph, who had
enjoined on her the greatest reserve on the subject of the secret
protection which he extended to Germain and Louise, she regretted she
had suffered herself to say, "Patience--every dog has his day."

"This bad man is one M. Ferrand, madame," answered Rigolette; adding
very adroitly, to repair her slight indiscretion, "and it is so much
the more wicked in him to persecute Louise and Germain thus, as they
have no one to interest themselves in their behalf except me, who can
be of no use to them."

"What a pity!" said Mrs. Seraphin. "I had hoped the contrary when you
said 'But patience.' I thought that you reckoned on some protector to
sustain these two unfortunates against this wicked notary."

"Alas! no, madame," answered Rigolette, in order to completely lull
the suspicions of Mrs. Seraphin. "Who would be generous enough to take
the part of these two poor young folks against a rich and powerful man
like M. Ferrand?"

"Oh, there are hearts generous enough for that!" cried Fleur-de-Marie,
after a moment's reflection, and with constrained warmth.

"I know some one who makes it a duty to protect those who suffer, and
defend them, for he of whom I speak is as charitable to honest people,
as he is formidable to the wicked."

Rigolette looked at Goualeuse with astonishment, and was on the point
of saying (thinking of Rudolph) that she also knew some one who
courageously took the part of the weak against the strong; but, still
faithful to the requests of her neighbor, she answered Fleur-de-Marie,
"Really! you do know some one generous enough to come to the aid of
the poor?"

"Yes. And although I have already implored his pity, his benevolence
for other persons, I am sure if he knew the unmerited misfortunes of
Louise and M. Germain, he would save them and punish their persecutor;
for his justice and goodness are almost as inexhaustible as God's."

Mrs. Seraphin looked at her victim with surprise.

"This little girl would be still more dangerous than we thought," said
she to herself. "If I had taken pity on her, what she has just said
would render the accident inevitable which will rid us of her."

"My good little Goualeuse, since you have such a good acquaintance, I
beg you will recommend my Louise and my Germain to him, for they do
not deserve their fate," said Rigolette, thinking that her friends
might gain by having two defenders instead of one.

"Be tranquil; I promise you to do what I can for your _proteges_
with M. Rudolph," said Fleur-de-Marie.

"M. Rudolph!" cried Rigolette, strangely surprised.

"Certainly," said La Goauleuse.

"M. Rudolph, a traveling clerk?"

"I do not know what he is. But why this astonishment?"

"Because I know a M. Rudolph also."

"Perhaps it is not the same."

"Let us see; what does he look like?"

"Young?"

"Exactly!"

"A face full of nobleness and goodness?"

"That's it; just like mine!" said Rigolette, more and more surprised;
and she added, "Is he dark? Has he small mustaches?"

"Yes."

"Is he tall and slender, fine figure, and an air too stylish for a
traveling clerk? Does yours look just so?"

"Without a doubt it is he," answered Fleur-de-Marie; "only, what is
strange is, that you think him a traveling clerk."

"As to that, I am sure of it; he told me so."

"You know him?"

"I know him. He is my neighbor!"

"M. Rudolph?"

"He has a chamber on the fourth floor, alongside of mine."

"He! he!"

"What is so astonishing in all this? It is very simple: he only earns
fifteen or eighteen hundred francs a year; he can only hire a modest
room, although he has very little regularity about him, for he does
not know what his clothes cost him, my dear."

"No, no; it is not the same," said Fleur-de-Marie, reflecting.

"Yours, then, is a phoenix for order?"

"He of whom I speak, Rigolette," said Fleur-de-Marie, with enthusiasm,
"is all-powerful; his name is only pronounced with love and
veneration, his appearance is imposing, and one is almost tempted to
kneel before his grandeur and his goodness."

"Then I am at fault, my poor Goualeuse; I say as you do, it is not the
same; for mine is neither all-powerful nor imposing. He is a very good
sort, very lively, and no one kneels before him--just the contrary;
for he has promised to help me wax my floor, and take me a walk on
Sunday. You see he is no great lord. But what am I thinking about? I
have truly the heart for a walk! And Louise and my poor Germain, as
long as they are in prison, there can be no pleasure for me."

For some moments, Fleur-de-Marie reflected profoundly; she recalled to
her mind that when she first saw Rudolph he had the appearance and
language of the guests of the Ogress, her keeper. Might he not play
the part of a traveling clerk with Rigolette? What could be the object
of this new transformation? The grisette, seeing the pensive air of
Fleur-de-Marie, said:

"There is no use of cracking your head on this account, my good
Goualeuse, we shall soon find out if we know the same M. Rudolph; when
you see yours, speak to him of me; when I see mine, I will speak to
him of you. In this way we can satisfy ourselves at once."

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