E-text prepared by Al Haines

A CARDINAL SIN

by

EUGENE SUE

Translated by Alexina Loranger

Chicago W. B. Conkey Company Copyright, 1892 by Morrill, Higgins & Co. Copyright, 1893 by W. B. Conkey Company

A CARDINAL SIN.

CHAPTER I.

On a beautiful, bright morning of the month of May, 18—, a young girl of eighteen years or thereabouts, whose pale, melancholy face reflected only too plainly the wretchedness and privations of her daily life, was wending her way, timidly and with hesitating steps, through that populous quarter of the city known as the Charnier des Innocents, a dreary spot, principally noted for its large number of public scribes, who make a precarious living by acting as secretaries to the ignorant people of the vicinity.

Two or three times she paused, undecided, before an open door; then, thinking perhaps that the writer was either too young or unprepossessing, she slowly resumed her search. She had reached the last of the row, and was on the point of retracing her steps, when her gaze fell on a venerable old man, whose benign countenance beamed kindly on her from his desk; and without further hesitation she resolutely entered the little shop.

Struck by the touching beauty and modest attitude of the young girl, the scribe greeted her with paternal affability, and discreetly drawing the curtain over the dingy window, motioned her to a seat, while he sank back into his old leather-covered arm-chair and waited for her to speak.

The girl's pretty face flushed and she cast down her large, blue eyes in embarrassment, while a painful silence followed. She was evidently agitated by a deep emotion, for her breast heaved visibly beneath the worn merino shawl she wore over her faded gingham dress, and her hands trembled slightly as she folded them on her lap.

"Why this embarrassment, my dear child?" said the old man kindly. "Do you wish me to draw up a petition, a request, or write a letter?"

"Yes, monsieur, I want a letter written," she replied in a low, soft voice, her face flushing still more painfully.

"Can you not write?"

She shook her head and cast down her eyes once more.

Fearing he had needlessly humiliated his client, the old man hastened to add:

"Poor child, do you suppose me capable of blaming your ignorance?"

"Monsieur!—" she began in protestation.

"Ah! believe me," he interrupted, "I feel a great deal of compassion for persons who, having no education, are forced to have recourse to men of my profession, to admit them into their confidence, and reveal their most secret and dearest thoughts! It is very painful, is it not?"

"Yes, indeed, monsieur!" exclaimed the girl, touched by these words.
"To be obliged to address myself to a stranger, to—"

Her eyes filled with tears and she paused in confusion.

"My dear child, pray recover your composure," entreated the scribe. "You need fear neither indiscretion nor ridicule with me. The confidence reposed in me by persons whom chance or misfortune has deprived of the benefits of education, has always been considered as sacred to me."

"Oh! thank you, monsieur; you relieve me of half my grief by understanding and excusing my embarrassment," said Mariette, gratefully. "Oh! yes," she went on with a sigh, "it is very cruel to know neither how to read nor write; but alas! it is not my fault."

"Ah! my poor child, like many others who come to me, it is the want of opportunity, and not the absence of good will, which has deprived you of knowledge. Some are forced to assume the care of younger brothers and sisters while the parents work; others are sent out as apprentices at an early age—"

"I was placed as an apprentice at the age of nine," sighed Mariette, "and until that time I was retained at home to care for a little brother, who died shortly before my parents."

"Poor child, your story is similar to those of your companions that come to me. But why did you not try to gain some education when you had finished your apprenticeship?"

"Where would I find the time, monsieur? I work almost day and night to provide for my godmother and myself—"

"Time, alas! is the bread of the poor!" broke in the old man; "they must starve to death or live in ignorance."

He paused for a moment, then asked with renewed interest: "You speak of your godmother; have you no other relative?"

"No, Monsieur," replied the girl sadly.

"But forgive me, I am taking up your time uselessly instead of coming to the purpose of my visit."

"My time could not be better employed than in listening to you, my child; for I am sure you are a good and honest girl. Now let us see about the letter. Will you merely state what you wish to write, or do you prefer to dictate to me?"

"I prefer to dictate the letter."

"Very well, I am ready," declared the old man, adjusting his glasses and bending over his desk that he might not increase his pretty client's confusion.

With down-cast eyes, and after a moment of hesitation, Mariette began:

"Monsieur Louis—"

At the name of Louis the old man started, but said quietly: "It is written, my child."

Nothwithstanding her confidence in the old man, the girl instinctively shrank from revealing her inmost thoughts to a stranger. But after a momentary pause, she went on hesitatingly:

"I have received no word from you, and I am very sad. Yet, you had promised to write during your voyage—"

"During your voyage," repeated the writer, who had become suddenly thoughtful. "A strange coincidence," he said to himself, with growing anxiety. "His name is Louis, and he is away."

"I hope that you are well," continued the girl, "and that your silence is not caused by illness, for my grief would be doubled."

"To-day is the sixth of May, Monsieur Louis—the sixth of May—and I would not let the day pass without reminding you of me. Perhaps you had the same thought also, and I may receive a letter from you when you receive this from me, the day after to-morrow. Then I shall know that the delay was not caused by illness or forgetfulness, and how happy I shall be! I shall therefore await the day after to-morrow with much impatience. May heaven protect me from disappointment, Monsieur Louis—"

Mariette stifled a sigh and wiped a tear from her pale cheek.

The features of the writer, who still bent low over his desk, were invisible to the young girl, and she was unconscious of the expression of alarm that had crept over them. Two or three times, while writing, he had cast furtive, scrutinizing glances at his client; and it was evident that his first impulse of sympathetic interest was changing to restraint caused by serious apprehensions.

Folding her hands once more on her lap, Mariette resumed:

"I have nothing new to tell you, Monsieur Louis. My godmother is still ill, she suffers very much, and the torture she undergoes embitters her character more and more. That I may be near her as much as possible, I now work at home instead of going to Mme. Jourdan. The days seem wretchedly long and sad, for working at the shop with my companions is much more cheerful, and I can accomplish more. I am therefore obliged to stay up very late; and I sleep but little, as my godmother always suffers more at night and, consequently needs more care. Sometimes I fail to hear her first call, I sleep so soundly; then she scolds me, which is only natural when she suffers so much.

"I tell you these things to show you that my life is not a happy one, and that one word of friendship from you would encourage and console me for so many sad things.

"Farewell, Monsieur Louis. I counted on Augustine to write; but she has gone away and I am dictating this letter to another person. Ah! never have I so much regretted my inability to read and write as at this moment. Farewell, once more, Monsieur Louis; think of me I beg you, for I think of you always."

"Is this all, my child?" queried the old man, after a moment of silence.

"Yes, monsieur."

"And what name shall I sign?"

"Mariette."

"Mariette only?"

"Mariette Moreau, if you please."

"Mariette Moreau," repeated the old man, as he inscribed the name.

Then folding the letter, he made a violent effort to conceal the secret anguish with which he awaited the reply to his question, and asked:

"To whom shall I address it?"

"To M. Louis Richard, at Dreux, to be called for."

"No more doubt of it," thought the old man, as he prepared to address the letter.

Had the young girl been less pre-occupied with her, own thoughts, she could not have failed to remark the harsh expression which darkened the public writer's countenance when he learned beyond doubt to whom this innocent missive was addressed. In fact, he seemed unable to make up his mind to inscribe the name given, for when he had written the word "Monsieur," he suddenly dropped the pen and looked up.

"My dear child," he began, trying to smile with his usual benevolence, that he might not betray his resentment and apprehensions, "although this is the first time we meet, it seems to me that I have inspired confidence in you."

"Indeed you have, monsieur," she assured him. "Before entering your house I feared I would not find the courage to dictate the letter to a total stranger; but you received me with so much kindness that my embarrassment has almost completely melted away."

"Why should you have felt any embarrassment, my child? Even though I were your father, I could not find a word to reproach you in what you have written to—to M. Louis—and it I did not fear to abuse your confidence in me I would ask—but no—it would be an indiscretion."

"What would you ask, monsieur?"

"Who this M. Louis Richard is."

"Oh! that's no secret, I assure you. M. Louis is a student; the notary's office in which he is employed is in the same building as the shop in which I work. That is how we met, just one year ago to-day."

"Ah! I now understand why you insisted on the date of your letter; to-day is the anniversary of your first meeting!"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And you love each other. There, don't blush, my child—I suppose you will marry some day?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Has M. Louis' family consented to the marriage?"

"M. Louis has no one to consult but his father, and we hope he will not refuse his consent."

"And what kind of a man is he?"

"The best of fathers—so M. Louis tells me—and a man who endures his poverty most courageously, although he once had a comfortable home. But M. Louis and his father are now as poor as godmother and myself; and this is why we expect no opposition to our marriage. No difficulty can arise between poor people."

"It seems to me that your godmother does not make life very happy for you, my child."

"What will you? it is so natural to be ill-humored when one suffers incessantly and life is but a continual round of misfortunes."

"Is she a cripple?"

"She has lost one hand, besides being afflicted with a lung disease which has kept her confined to her bed for more than a year."

"How did she lose that hand?"

"She pricked her finger with a mattress needle, and as she could not stop work, blood poisoning followed, and she was forced to have her arm amputated."

"Poor woman," broke in the old man, absent-mindedly.

"As for her lung trouble, it is very common among women who continually breathe the dust arising from the wool used in mattresses. My godmother is almost bent double, and during her long paroxysms of coughing I am sometimes obliged to support her in my arms for hours."

"You alone, then, contribute to her support?"

"Certainly, since she is unable to work."

"Such devotion on your part is very generous."

"I only do my duty, monsieur. She gave me shelter after my parents died, and paid for my three years of apprenticeship in the shop. Is it not just that I should now care for her?"

"You must work very hard to earn sufficiently."

"From fifteen to eighteen hours a day."

"And instead of taking a much needed rest at night, you watch over your godmother?"

"Who would care for her if I did not?"

"Why not try to place her in the hospital?"

"She would not be admitted, as her case is incurable. Besides, I scarcely think I would have the courage to desert her thus."

"You are indeed a noble girl, my child, and I judged you rightly," declared the old man, grasping her hand in his.

"Oh! my God!" cried Mariette, as she saw his sleeve catch the inkstand, spilling the contents over the precious letter. "Ah! monsieur, what a misfortune!"

"What awkwardness!" exclaimed the writer angrily. "But never mind, I can copy it in a very few minutes. I shall read it aloud as I go on, so that you may suggest any change you may think proper."

"I am so grieved to give you all this trouble," she murmured, evidently much distressed.

"It serves me right, my dear,—I alone am to blame."

As he resumed his work, a violent internal conflict seemed reflected on his features; from time to time a sigh of relief and satisfaction escaped his lips; then again he appeared confused and avoided Mariette's limpid gaze; while she leaned on the table, her head supported on one hand, anxiously and enviously following the rapid pen of the writer, as he traced the magic characters that would convey her thoughts to her lover.

"How much do I owe you, monsieur?" she asked timidly, when he had folded the missive and addressed it.

"Fifty centimes," rejoined the old man, after a moment of hesitation, "and remember that I charge you for one of the letters only. I alone am responsible for my awkwardness."

"You are very kind, monsieur," said Mariette, touched by what she considered a proof of generosity on his part. "Indeed," she added, as she replaced her slender purse into her pocket, "you have been so good to me that I shall ask you a very great service—"

"Go on, my child."

"If I have more letters to send, it will be almost impossible for me to go to a stranger—"

"I shall always be at your service, my child."

"What I wished to say was, that my godmother is also unable to write or read, and the friend who was my confidante has gone to the country. So if I should receive a letter from M. Louis, would you have the goodness to read it for me? I would then dictate the answer at once."

"Certainly, my child; bring me all your letters," rejoined the old man, dissimulating his satisfaction. "I am indeed much gratified by the confidence you show in me. Good-bye, then. I hope you feel less embarrassment now than when you entered?"

"I did not expect so much kindness, monsieur."

"Try to look on me as your reader and secretary, my child. Does it not seem as though we had known each other for ten years."

"Indeed it does—Good-bye, monsieur."

Mariette had scarcely vanished, when the postman pushed the door open and handed in a letter, saying: "Here is a letter from Dreux, père Richard."

"A letter from Dreux!" exclaimed the old man, grasping it eagerly and examining the writing closely. "Ah! it comes from Ramon," he muttered to himself. "I wonder what he thinks of my son? Alas! what will now become of the fine projects so long formed between us!"

"Six sous, père Richard," observed the postman, arousing him from his reverie.

"Six sous!" cried the old man. "The devil! was it not prepaid? Ah! true enough," he sighed, as he regretfully handed the man the coin he had just received from Mariette.

CHAPTER II.

In the meantime, Mariette was hurrying homeward, somewhat uneasy at the thought of her long absence. Having reached that sad, gloomy street known as the Rue des Prêtres-Saint-Germain, she walked rapidly along until she came to the last dingy house facing the dark walls of the church, where she entered. Crossing an obscure passage, the girl ascended a rickety stairway, only dimly lighted from a small court-yard that resembled nothing more than a narrow well, and stopped at the door of the portière.

"Madame Justin," she said to the woman, who stood on the threshold, "have you been up to see if my godmother wanted anything?"

"I carried up her milk, Mademoiselle Mariette," replied the woman, "but she was in such a temper that she received me like a dog."

"We must take pity on her, Madame Justin; she suffers so much."

"Of course you always excuse her and suffer everything in silence, Mademoiselle Mariette. It shows your kind heart, but it does not alter the fact that your godmother is as wicked as a red mule. Poor child! you are doing your purgatory on earth; and if there is no Heaven, you will be well cheated."

"Good-bye, Madame Justin, I must go up now."

"Wait a moment, I have a letter for you."

"A letter!" cried Mariette, her cheeks flushing and her heart throbbing violently. "Is it from the provinces?"

"Yes; the postmark is from Dreux, and it costs her six sous. Here it is. The word 'Urgent' is written in one corner of the envelope."

The girl thrust the missive in her bosom; then drawing her purse, she took out her last ten-sou piece and paid the woman. Taking her key, she then ran up the last stairs, her heart beating wildly with a sensation of mingled happiness and sadness. Though she was happy in the possession of the letter, the word "Urgent" on the corner of the envelope filled her with misgivings; besides, what sadness filled her heart at the thought that perhaps several hours must elapse before she could learn what Louis Richard had written.

Having finally reached the fifth floor of the dilapidated house, so gloomy and ill-smelling, with its atmosphere poisoned by stagnant water in the defective sinks and sewers, she hesitatingly entered the dingy room occupied by her godmother and herself.

A woman was lying with her face to the wall, on the only bed that the room boasted; while the thin mattress that served Mariette as a couch was rolled in a corner, as much out of the way as possible. A work table, an old dresser, two chairs, and a few kitchen utensils hanging around the chimney, composed the sole furniture of this humble home, lighted only by a narrow window overlooking the gloomy yard, but the most rigorous neatness was remarkable everywhere.

The girl's godmother, Madame Lacombe, was a tall, gaunt woman of fifty years, with a cadaverous complexion and harsh, disagreeable features. A bitter, sardonic smile, caused by a lifetime of misery and suffering, habitually contracted her livid lips, her form being almost bent double; her mutilated arm and bilious face, enframed in a ragged cap, through which hung long wisps of gray hair, were alone visible outside the coverings.

"Where have you been?" she cried, in a rasping voice, making an effort to tarn in her bed as the girl entered.

"Dear godmother, I—" began Mariette.

"Oh, yes; you go running about the streets, leaving me here alone to fret and fume!" interrupted the woman furiously.

"But I was scarcely gone an hour," protested the girl.

"And you hoped to find me dead on your return, eh?"

"Heavens! how can you think such a thing!" sobbed Mariette.

"Oh! yes; you may whine now. But I am not your dupe! You have had enough of me; and the day when I am screwed down in my coffin will be a day of rejoicing for you—and so will it be for me, too—Oh! my God! this is too much agony," she groaned, pressing her thin hand to her breast.

Mariette wiped away the tears drawn by this harsh sarcasm, and approaching the bed, said sweetly: "You had such a bad night that I thought you might sleep a little in my absence."

"Oh! yes—you leave me here alone, to die like a dog, while you run about the streets."

"I was obliged to go out; but Madame Justin promised—"

"I had rather see death itself than that creature," interrupted the sick woman angrily, "and you take every opportunity to send her to me."

A bitter smile flitted over the girl's lips; but she passed this new sarcasm unnoticed and said gently: "Shall I put fresh bandages on your arm?"

"It's too late now; you stayed away purposely."

"I am sorry I was delayed; but allow me to do it now."

"Leave me alone."

"But the wound will be inflamed."

"That's exactly what you are aiming at."

"Godmother, I beg you!"

"Don't come near me!" shrieked the sick woman furiously.

"I shall wait then," sighed the girl. "Shall I warm up your milk?"

"Milk! milk! and nothing but milk!—I am just sick of it. The doctor prescribed good chicken broth; and here it is Sunday, and I have had none since Tuesday."

"It's no fault of mine, godmother. The doctor prescribes—but money must be found to provide what he orders. And I can scarcely make twenty sous a day now."

"You don't mind what you spend on yourself," snapped Mme. Lacombe.

"You know well that I have worn nothing but this faded print dress all winter," rejoined Mariette, with touching resignation. "I economize as much as I can—and we owe two quarters of rent."

"You might as well say right now that I am a burden to you. These are the thanks I get for taking you out of the streets and paying for your apprenticeship!—you ungrateful, heartless child!"

"No, no, I am not ungrateful, godmother!" protested Mariette, restraining her tears with difficulty. "And, if you suffered less, you would not be so unjust to me—but do take something, or else you will be ill."

"I know it, I feel a terrible gnawing at my stomach."

"Please have some milk, godmother," entreated the girl.

"Go to the devil with your milk!" she snapped angrily.

"Shall I get you some fresh eggs?"

"No!"

"Will you have some rice?"

"I want some chicken!"

"But I can't get one on credit."

"You had twenty-seven sous in your purse this morning, and the quarter of a chicken will do me."

"But, godmother, that money—"

"Well, what about that money?"

"It's gone; I have only a few sous left."

"And where are those two ten-sous pieces?—Will you answer me?"

"I—I don't know," faltered the girl, reproaching herself bitterly for spending her money on the letters. "They must have dropped from my purse; for I have lost them."

"You lie!—I see it in your face."

"I assure you—"

"That's it," rejoined the sick woman, with a sardonic laugh, "she leaves me to rot on this wretched pallet, while she feasts on cakes and sweetmeats!"

"I?—Oh, my God!" moaned the girl.

"Out of here, you wretched creature! You may leave me to starve; but don't let me see your face again!" cried the unhappy woman, driven to desperation by the tortures she endured and the exasperating animosity of fate against her. "Ah! yes, you are very anxious to make me swallow that milk," she added, with a still more ironical laugh; "I am such a burden that you may have dropped something in it!"

At this accusation—still more senseless than atrocious—Mariette remained for a moment dumbfounded, not realizing the full meaning of the horrible words. But when their full sense burst upon her, she clasped her two hands together and shrank back in terror; then, unable to restrain her sobs any longer, and yielding to an irresistible impulse, she threw her arms about the sick woman's neck and, covering her face with tears and kisses, murmured brokenly: "Oh! godmother! godmother!"

This heart-broken protestation against an accusation which could have had its birth in a delirious brain only, fortunately recalled the sick woman to reason. Her heart relaxed a little under this flow of tears, and she realized her injustice.

"There, there, little one," she said with emotion, as she took one of the girl's trembling hands in hers and pressed the quivering form against her breast, "don't cry so—how foolish you are!—don't you see I was only jesting?"

Jesting! A sad jest, alas! worthy only of such abject misery.

"Yes; I was wrong to take your words seriously," returned Mariette, wiping away the tears from her pale cheeks.

"What will you? you must take pity on your poor godmother, my little Mariette. By dint of suffering, you see, my gall has overflowed, and my heart is like my mouth—bitter, Oh, so bitter!"

"I know that you grumble in spite of yourself sometimes, godmother—Ah, it is so easy to be always cheerful and contented when one is happy; while you have found little happiness in your life."

"True enough," said the old woman, feeling a sort of cruel satisfaction in justifying her embittered character by the enumeration of her wrongs against an implacable destiny; "true enough, many have fared as badly as myself, but few have fared worse. Beaten in my apprenticeship, beaten by a drunken husband, crippled and ill, I have dragged my chains for fifty years, and none can say that I have had one happy day—one single happy day in my accursed life. As we say, my little Mariette, my life has been without a single Sunday, while each day is a holiday to so many."

"Poor godmother, I can understand what you have suffered," murmured the girl, sympathetically.

"No, no, you can never understand, although you have known much sorrow in your eighteen years. You are pretty, at least, and when you have a new frock, with a fresh bit of ribbon in your golden hair, you can smile at your reflection in the mirror and feel a moment of happiness."

"Oh, godmother! I—"

"Be frank, little one; admit that it makes you happy, and perhaps a little proud, too, when people turn their heads to look at you, in spite of your faded gown and coarse shoes."

"Indeed you are mistaken, godmother; it makes me blush to have any one look at me. When I worked at the shop, there was a gentleman who came every day and always gazed persistently at me while talking to Madame Jourdan, and it mortified me to death."

"Yes, but at heart you were pleased; and when you are old you will remember it. You will then have something like a reflection of your youth; while I see nothing but gloom, and don't even know if I was ever young. But as for being ugly, I am sure of that."

"Oh! godmother!"

"Yes, I was so ugly that I could not bear the sight of a mirror. The consequence was that I found nothing better than a drunken husband, who nearly killed me with blows; and I was even deprived of the chance of rejoicing over his death, for I was obliged to pay his debts at the wine-shop. Then I became a cripple, and would starve were it not for you."

"You are unjust, godmother," observed Mariette, with a tender smile, trying to dispel her melancholy. "To my knowledge, you have had one happy day, at least, in your life."

"Which was that?"

"The day you gave me shelter, after my mother's death. Did not the good action give you satisfaction and make you happy for the day?"

"Well, if you call that a happy day—I want no more like it."

"Why?"

"It was rather one of my worst days!"

"Oh! godmother!" expostulated the girl sadly.

"Since my wretched husband's death, I had but myself to care for; but in taking charge of you, it was like being left a widow with a child to support. I call that anything but gay, when a woman can scarcely earn her own living. But you looked so charming with your pretty curly head and large blue eyes, and you seemed so sad kneeling beside your mother's coffin, that I had not the heart to let them take you to the asylum. And what a dreary night I spent, wondering what I would do with you, and what would become of you if work failed me! And you call that a happy day? No, no! Had I been in comfortable circumstances, I would have felt that your future was assured and been happy. But to merely exchange your misery for worse still was nothing to rejoice over."

"Well, let us say no more about days," said Mariette soothingly, smiling through her tears, "but let us speak of moments; for I am determined to show that you have experienced some happiness. Now, for instance, take this moment—"

"Well, what of it?"

"I am sure that you are happy to see that I have dried my tears, thanks to your kind words."

The sick woman shook her head sadly.

"Do you know what I think when I get over my bad humor?" she said, with a sigh. "Well, I think that you must hate me for my harshness and injustice toward you. And I deserve it, too."

"Now you are going back to your melancholy thoughts," said the girl reproachfully.

"Admit that I am right. It's only natural, after all. You kill yourself working for me, you feed and nurse me, and I repay you with harsh words only. My death would indeed be a relief to you; and the sooner I am laid in my coffin the better."

"I know you are jesting once more," rejoined Mariette, making an effort to smile, though her heart was full to bursting.

"Well, if I am only jesting, little one, don't look so grieved," returned the old woman, touched by the girl's evident distress. "Now put the milk on the fire, and bandage my arm while waiting for it to boil."

Mariette was as delighted over these orders as though they had been the kindest words in the world. She hastily lighted the fire; cut up their only remaining piece of bread into a dish of milk, placed it on the stove, and returned to the invalid.

In spite of the repugnance which the putrid sore inspired in her, Mariette showed as much patience as dexterity in cleansing and bandaging the mutilated arm; and the young girl's devotion, as well as her noble resignation, touched the woman's heart anew.

"Sisters of Charity are often praised, my dear," she said admiringly, "but none of them deserve half the praise you do."

"But those good sisters devote their time to strangers, godmother," protested the girl modestly, "while you are like a mother to me. I only do my duty, and therefore have no merit."

"Poor child, my affection for you brings you but little happiness. Only a few moments ago I made you burst into tears; and to-morrow will be the same as to-day."

To escape from a reply to these bitter words, Mariette brought the steaming milk, which the invalid drank with appetite, and then busied herself in making the bed more comfortable.

"What will you eat, Mariette?" asked the old woman, as she swallowed the last spoonful.

"Oh! I have had my breakfast," said the girl bravely. "I bought a small loaf of rye bread this morning and ate it on my way—there, now," giving a last shake to the pillow, "you must try to sleep, you had such a bad night—are you more comfortable now?"

"Yes, thank you, child."

"I shall take my work near the window; the room is dark and this is very delicate work."

"What is it?"

"A fine cambric chemise, godmother. Madame Jourdan trusted me with it only after many recommendations not to lose this magnificent Valencienne trimming, which alone is worth two hundred francs. This brings the cost to three hundred francs apiece, and there are two dozen to make. It seems they are intended for somebody's mistress," concluded the girl naïvely.

The invalid burst into a sardonic laugh.

"What is it?" asked Mariette in surprise.

"Such a funny idea."

"Ah!" ejaculated Mariette, with a vague feeling of apprehension, for she knew only too well the habitual character of her godmother's jests. "What idea, godmother?"

"I was asking myself of what use such people as you and I are in this world—wretched creatures, who know nothing but the sorrows and miseries of life; do you know, child?"

"Indeed, godmother, I scarcely know what to say."

"Why should a respectable girl like you, who has but two or three ragged chemises to her name, earn the paltry sum of twenty sous per day sewing chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, for—" She burst into another bitter laugh, and turned her face to the wall, saying: "Take up your work courageously, child! I shall try to dream of cemeteries to cheer me up!"

CHAPTER III.

Mariette's heart was fortunately too pure, and she was, moreover, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to feel the wretched bitterness of this last sarcasm. Drawing the letter she had received from her bosom, she placed it on her lap where her godmother's eyes could not reach it, and gazed longingly at it while continuing her work.

The regular breathing of the invalid soon convinced her that she was asleep, however, and she paused in her work long enough to tear open the envelope and spread the letter before her eyes. Vain and puerile curiosity! The characters were undecipherable to her! No picture could be more sorrowful and touching than the sight of this young girl, gazing with a fast beating heart at the unintelligible missive. One thing she remarked, however; the letter was very short, and this fact filled her with hope and uneasiness both.

Did this short, urgent letter announce good or bad news? she anxiously asked herself.

With her eyes fixed on the mysterious words, Mariette lost herself in conjectures and suppositions, fully convinced that so short a letter, after a prolonged absence, must inevitably bring unexpected news. In her poignant perplexity Mariette endured torments and excruciating torture, to which the uneducated are continually exposed. To hold in our grasp, and beneath our eyes, the few lines that bring us joy or sorrow, and be unable to penetrate the secret; to be under the necessity of asking a stranger to read these lines, and to receive from indifferent lips the announcement of something on which life itself almost depends, is an agony beyond words!

Mariette's anguish soon reached such a point that she resolved, at the risk of being cruelly treated on her return, to have recourse to the public scribe at once. Cautiously arising from her seat, that she might not arouse the sick woman, she tiptoed softly to the door; but as she crossed the threshold, a sudden painful thought stopped her. She could not ask the scribe to read the letter without dictating a reply, and she possessed barely enough money to purchase the bread necessary for the day. She already owed the baker twenty francs, and he had refused her further credit; she could not, therefore, spend her last sou on what she considered as culpable prodigality. The reader may smile at this picture of overwhelming grief and cruel recriminations against herself apropos of a couple of fifty centime pieces. Alas! no sum is small or insignificant to the poor; an increase of ten sous in wages brings back life to the starved bodies, alleviates that living agony which leads so many to a premature grave.

For a moment the young girl was tempted to carry Louis' letter to the janitress; but fearing the gossip and perhaps the raillery of the woman, she preferred to make a painful sacrifice and not expose herself to new humiliations. She still possessed a pretty dress, bought at the Temple and altered to her figure, which she had worn only on the few occasions she had gone out with Louis. Taking the gown from its accustomed peg in the corner, she folded it into a basket with a silk fichu that was almost new, and walked cautiously to the door once more.

"Going out again—" muttered her godmother, drowsily, as she turned over in her bed and dropped asleep once more.

Mariette stood motionless for a moment, then glided softly through the door and ran swiftly down the stairs.

Having obtained fifty sous on the gown and fichu at the Mont-de-Piété, she hurried toward the Charnier des Innocents in quest of the old scribe. Since Mariette's departure, and more especially since he had read his son's letter in the morning, the old man had reflected with ever-growing anxiety over the obstacles he might have to overcome to accomplish his cherished project, in view of the secret he had discovered during his interview with the young girl. He was still buried in painful meditation when Mariette suddenly appeared at the door.

"What is it, my child?" he asked, alarmed at this unexpected return.
"I did not expect to see you back so soon."

"I have a letter from M. Louis, monsieur," she replied, her voice quivering slightly, as she drew the missive from her bosom, "and I have come to beg you to read it for me—and answer it if necessary."

Trembling with uneasiness and curiosity, she gazed intently at the old man while he glanced through the short letter, making a strong effort to conceal the annoyance given him by the few lines. Then suddenly starting up, and feigning great indignation, he tore the letter into shreds, crushed the pieces between his hands and hurled them under his desk.

"Ah, monsieur, what have you done!" cried Mariette in dismay.

"Ah! my poor child!" sighed the old man, looking at her pityingly.

"My God! something has happened M. Louis!" she gasped, clasping her hands together.

"No, my child—but you must forget him."

"Forget him?"'

"Yes, believe me; you must renounce your cherished hopes."

"Heavens! what has happened?"

"Ignorance is a very sad thing, my poor child; and yet, at this moment,
I would pity you if you could read."

"But, monsieur, what does the letter contain?"

"You must think no more of your marriage—"

"Does M. Louis write that?"

"Yes; he appeals to your generosity and delicacy, as well as your kindness of heart."

"M. Louis gives me up—and tells me to give him up also," she said slowly.

"Alas! yes, poor child! Come, be brave and resigned."

Mariette turned ghastly pale and stood silent for a moment, while big tears rolled down her cheeky; then, falling to her knees, she gathered the fragments of the torn letter and placed them on the desk before the old man's eyes.

"I shall have the courage to hear it through," she said sadly; "replace the pieces and read it."

"Please don't insist, my child, I beg of you," he rejoined, with hypocritical sympathy.

"In mercy, read it, monsieur!"

"But—"

"However painful it may be for me to listen, I must know its contents."

"I have already told you what it contained—spare yourself useless pain."

"Have pity on me, monsieur! In the name of heaven, read it—read it! I must at least know the full extent of my misfortune—and, besides, there may be one line or word of consolation."

"Since you insist on it, my poor child, I shall read it," said the old man, readjusting the torn pieces, while Mariette looked on with eyes dimmed with tears, her heart throbbing with anguish. "Here it is."

"My Dear Mariette:

"I write these few words in haste, my soul filled with the sadness of death. We must renounce our hopes, for I must secure comfort and rest for my father in his old days. You know how much I love my father. I have given my word, and we shall never meet again.

"One last prayer: I address myself to your delicacy of feelings and generosity of heart—do not attempt to see me again, or change my resolution. I must choose between you and my father; and if I see you again I may not have the courage to do my duty as a son. My father's fate lies in your hands, and I count on your generosity. Farewell, I can write no more.

"Farewell once more, Farewell forever!
    Louis."

Standing motionless beside the writer's desk, with downcast eyes and the tears rolling silently down her pale cheeks, her lips quivering and her hands clasped convulsively together, Mariette presented a fit model for the picture of "Despair," as she listened to the words that crushed her heart with such cruel force.

"There. I was sure the letter would pain you frightfully," observed the old man, looking up as he finished reading.

Mariette made no reply.

"Don't tremble so, my child," resumed the old scribe. "Sit down—here, take this glass of fresh water."

Mariette did not even hear; but still stood gazing fixedly at the torn letter, though she saw it but dimly through her tears.

"It is all over, then," she murmured brokenly. "Nothing—nothing more in this world!—I was too happy. Ah! I am like godmother; happiness was not made for me!—"

Her voice died out in a stifled sob, and a pang of remorse smote the old man as he gazed at her white, set face.

"My dear child," he said soothingly, "pray don't give way to despair."

These words recalled the young girl to herself; she wiped away her tears and, bending down, slowly gathered the pieces of the letter.

"What are you doing?" cried the scribe, in alarm. "Why should you preserve these fragments, which can only recall cruel souvenirs?"

"The tomb of some one we have loved, also recalls painful and cherished souvenirs," said Mariette, sadly, "and yet we do not desert it."

Having replaced the pieces in the envelope, she again thrust it in her bosom; and, drawing her thin shawl closely about her shoulders, turned toward the door. On the threshold, however, she paused hesitatingly and looked back at the old man.

"Thank you very much for your kindness, monsieur," she said gratefully; then, after a moment's silence, she added timidly: "Although there is no answer to this letter, I feel that after so much trouble I should offer you—"

"It will be ten sous, the same as a letter," interrupted the scribe; and without the least scruple or hesitation, he pocketed the remuneration with a sort of sensual pleasure, entirely unimpaired by the girl's wretchedness.

"Good-bye, my poor child," he said, "I hope we shall meet again under happier circumstances."

"May heaven grant it, monsieur."

She walked slowly away, while old Richard closed the shutters of his shop and prepared to return home.

Haunted by the most somber thoughts, and a prey to the most poignant emotions, Mariette walked mechanically onward, unconscious of surroundings, and of the way she went, until startled by the sight of the river.

"Fate has brought me here," she said with a shudder.

Crossing to the opposite side of the bridge, she leaned on the parapet and gazed at the rapid waters of the stream. Little by little, she began to experience that strange fascination caused by the attraction of the abyss; and as her eyes followed the swift current, she felt overtaken by a sort of vertigo and drawn more and more toward the flowing waters.

"Here is oblivion and an end to all sorrows!" thought the unhappy girl. "It is a sure refuge against all miseries, against fear and hunger, illness and unhappy old age—wretched as that of my godmother's—Ah! what would become of her without me?—"

At that moment she felt her arm grasped violently, and a frightened voice cried out:

"Look out, child, or you will fall into the river!"

The girl drew back shuddering, and gazed wildly around her.

"Do you know that you are very imprudent, to say the least of it, my child," said a good-natured looking woman, who stood beside her. "You were leaning so far over the parapet that I thought you would lose your footing any moment."

"Thank you, madame," replied Mariette, "I am very careless, indeed."

"You must be more careful, my dear," returned the woman warningly.
"Heavens! how pale you are—are you ill?"

"I feel a little faint, madame," said the girl, feeling a painful dizziness come over her, "but it will pass away."

"Lean on me, then. You are, no doubt, just recovering from a serious illness?"

"Yes—that's it, madame," responded Mariette, passing her hand over her brow, "but where am I?"

"At the Pont au Change—Are you a stranger in Paris?" asked the woman, curiously.

"No, madame; but I was overcome with a strange feeling of dizziness a few moments ago. It is passing over now, and I recognize the surroundings."

"You had better take my arm, you are trembling so," suggested the kind-hearted woman.

"Thank you, madame; it's not necessary, I live only a few steps from here."

"Well, good-bye, and be very cautious."

Having recovered the entire possession of her senses, Mariette now felt her bitter sorrows even more keenly than before; and she trembled at the thought of the harsh reception that awaited her in her desolate home, when she had so much need of consolation, or, at least, of that isolation and sad tranquility which lulls the most intense grief into calm hopelessness.

Being anxious to mitigate the cruel reproaches which her prolonged absence would inevitably draw upon her, she bethought herself of her godmother's desire to obtain the part of a chicken, and determined to satisfy this whim in the hope of being forgiven. She therefore hastened to the neighboring shops, purchased the quarter of a fowl and two white rolls with what remained of the money obtained on her gown and fichu, and turned homeward once more.

As she neared the house she was somewhat surprised to see an elegant cabriolet before the door; but she entered without giving the circumstance another thought, and stopping at the lodge asked for her key.

"Your key, Mademoiselle Mariette?" said Madame Justin, "why, a gentleman has just gone up with it."

"What gentleman?" queried the girl.

"A decorated gentleman. And finely decorated, too, I assure you. A ribbon two good inches wide—and such a loop! Upon my word, I never saw a man more beautifully decorated."

"But I don't know any decorated gentleman," exclaimed the girl in astonishment. "He must be mistaken."

"No, indeed. He inquired for a woman named Lacombe, a cripple living with her goddaughter, who is a seamstress. There is no mistake, as you see."

"Didn't you tell him that my god-mother was ill and could see no one?"

"Yes, I did. But he said he must see her on very important and urgent business; so I gave him the key and let him go up alone, having no desire to be abused by your godmother."

More and more astonished, Mariette ascended the rickety stairs to the fifth floor, pausing on the landing to recover her breath and find some excuse for her long absence. The door being ajar, she caught a glimpse of a stranger within the room, and the next moment distinctly heard these words:

"I am delighted to find your god-daughter away, my good woman; I can explain myself more clearly without her presence."

Mariette, who had been on the point of entering, yielded to an involuntary sentiment of curiosity instead, and remained where she stood.

CHAPTER IV.

The stranger was a man of forty-five years, or thereabouts, with worn but regular features, bearing deep traces of excessive dissipation and the most absolute profligacy. His physiognomy offered a strange mixture of deceit and impertinence; and these disagreeable traits were still more emphasized by a dark heavy moustache, which shone with a lustre equaled only by the false ebony of his artistically curled hair. His hands and feet were large; and, notwithstanding his visible pretentions, he at once betrayed the vulgar personage destined, not to imitate, but to parody veritable elegance. His dress was pompous, and in exceedingly bad taste; and even Mariette could not refrain from a smile at his affected military attitude and the ridiculously large red ribbon that adorned his button-hole.

Madame Lacombe, who had once more returned to her gloomy and sardonic humor, was gazing at the stranger with as much astonishment as distrust, feeling an almost invincible aversion against this insolent and patronizing personage, who had unceremoniously taken a seat at some distance from the bed, and was nibbling at the gold head of his cane while pursuing the conversation with her.

"Yes," repeated the visitor, "I am delighted to find you alone; as I was saying, I can explain myself more clearly."

"Monsieur," said the invalid, in a crabbed tone, "you have asked me if my name was Lacombe and if I was Mariette Moreau's godmother. I have already told you yes. Now what do you want of me? Explain yourself."

"To begin with, my good woman—" he began.

"I am called Madame Lacombe!" interrupted the woman.

"The devil! Well, then, Madame Lacombe," resumed the stranger with mock deference, "I shall first tell you who I am, and then proceed to explain what I want."

"Go on."

"I am called Commander de La Miraudière, an old military officer, as you see," pointing to the red ribbon on his coat, "ten campaigns and five wounds!"

"That's nothing to me. And then?"

"I have the most brilliant acquaintances in Paris: dukes, counts, marquises—"

"What's that to me?"

"I keep a carriage, and spend at least twenty thousand francs a year."

"While my god-daughter and myself are starving on twenty sous per day—that is, when she can earn them!" exclaimed the invalid bitterly. "Such is the justice of the world!"

"No! it is not justice!" protested the commander. "It is not just, and
I am here to put an end to such injustice!"

"If you are here to laugh at me," rejoined the woman, with an ominous scowl, "you had better go."

"Laugh at you, madame!—I!—judge me by what I offer. Do you want a pretty room, in a fine house, a servant to wait on you, two delicious meals every day, coffee every morning, and fifty francs a month for your snuff or other little fancies? Eh! what do you say to that?"

"I say—I say—that it's all a lie—or else there is something beneath it. When one offers so much to a poor, crippled old woman, it is not for the love of God, I am sure."

"You are right, Mamma Lacombe; it's for the love of two beautiful eyes."

"Whose eyes?"

"Your god-daughter's eyes, Mamma Lacombe," returned Commander de La
Miraudière cynically. "No use beating around the bush, you know."

"You know Mariette, then?" she said, with a piercing glance at his dissipated face.

"I often visit Madame Jourdan's establishment, for I am exceedingly fond of fine linen," he observed, casting a complaisant glance on the embroidered folds of his shirt. "I therefore found frequent occasion to admire you god-daughter; I think her beautiful and charming, and—"

"And you want to buy her from me?"

"Bravo! you are a woman of intelligence and good sense, Mamma Lacombe. You understand things without needless words. Now, this is my proposition: A fine, elegantly furnished apartment for Mariette, with whom you shall live, of course; five hundred francs per month for her expenses, exclusive of maid and cook; a suitable trousseau for the girl; and a purse of fifty louis to begin housekeeping, not counting costly gifts for good conduct. Besides this, there will be carriages, operas, balls, and a host of friends among ladies of my acquaintance. In a word, she will lead an enchanted existence—the existence of a duchess! What do you think of it?"

"Why not?" murmured the woman, with a strange smile. "Poor wretches like us are only good to sell ourselves when we are young, or sell others when we are old."

"Come now, Mamma Lacombe; to quiet your honest scruples, we shall say sixty francs per month for your pin money, and throw a superb shawl into the bargain. This will enable you to appear to advantage beside Mariette, whom you must watch with motherly solicitude, and never allow out of your sight, for I am jealous as a tiger, and don't like to be deceived."

"Only this very morning," put in the sick woman, "I was saying to Mariette, 'You are a respectable girl, and barely earn twenty sous per day sewing on chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, for a kept woman.'"

"Chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, ordered from Madame Jourdan? Let me see—ah! yes, I know. They must be for Amandine, the mistress of the Marquis de Saint-Herem, my most intimate friend—I recommended the establishment—a veritable fortune for Madame Jourdan, although that devil of a marquis seldom pays. But, on the other hand, all the furnishers and women he patronizes become the rage. Amandine was but an obscure little shop-girl six months ago, and now she is the most fashionable woman in Paris. And Mariette may have the same luck, you know. Fancy her wearing chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, instead of sewing them! Doesn't it make you feel like bursting with pride, Mamma Lacombe?"

"Unless Mariette ended like a girl of my acquaintance, who also sold herself through misery."

"What happened her?"

"She was robbed."

"Robbed?"

"She was promised mountains of gold, too; but at the end of three months she was deserted and left without a single sou. Then she killed herself in despair."

"The devil! what do you take me for?" cried the visitor, haughtily.
"Do I look like a swindler; a Robert Macaire?"

"I don't know what you are."

"I, an old soldier! twenty campaigns and ten times wounded! The intimate companion and friend of all the lions of Paris! a man with his own carriage and who spends twenty thousand francs per annum! The devil! be frank with me! Do you require securities or advances? Very well, then; the house shall be furnished within a week and the lease signed in your own name to-morrow, with the payment of a whole year in advance; besides, if we come to terms, here are twenty-five to thirty louis to bind the bargain."

Drawing twenty-eight gold pieces from his pocket, he tossed them on the work-table beside the bed, saying: "I am not like you, Mamma Lacombe; I am not afraid of being robbed."

At the clinking of gold, the sick woman leaned out of her bed and cast a glance of covetousness at the glittering pieces.

In all the course of her miserable existence, she had never possessed a single gold piece, and the sight of the scattered louis before her eyes almost dazzled her. Grasping a few in her withered fingers, she held them up to the light, trying to catch the sun's rays that she might feast her hungry eyes on their sparkling beauty.

"I had to show the bait to catch the old witch," said the tempter to himself, with a contemptuous smile.

"At last, at last I have touched the glittering gold!" muttered the old woman, jingling the yellow pieces in her hand.

"Touching them is nothing; the agreeable part of it is to spend them,
Mamma Lacombe."

"And this is enough to live in comfort for four or five months," she went on, piling up the coins with childish glee.

"You and Mariette will have as much for every month of the year, if you only say so," said the tempter. "Yes, all this gold; do you hear? in pure, glittering gold!"

There was a long interval of silence; then, raising her sunken eyes to the visitor, the invalid said wistfully: "You think Mariette pretty and charming, monsieur, do you not? You are right; there is not a better creature in the world. Now, be generous toward her! This sum is nothing for a rich man like you—give it to us as a gift."

"What!" gasped the astounded man.

"Monsieur, you are good and kind, pray be charitable also," pleaded the woman.

"This sum, so insignificant to you, would set us afloat once more. We could pay our debts, and Mariette would not be obliged to kill herself working. She would then find time to seek a more remunerative position, and we would owe you five or six months of tranquillity, of paradise—we live on so little! Come, my good sir, do that and we shall bless your name forever—and I can say that I was happy once in my life."

The request was so naïve, the tone so sincere and earnest that the decorated visitor was more hurt than surprised at this proposition. He could neither understand nor believe that a human being could be stupid enough to seriously make such a request to a man of his stamp.

"This is anything but flattering," he muttered to himself; "the old witch must take me for a young duckling ready to be plucked."

"The devil! Mamma Lacombe," he added aloud, bursting into a sneering laugh, "do you take me for a philanthropist, the inspector of charitable institutions, or a candidate for the Montyon prize? Tut, tut, you will rot in your bed before you receive charitable gifts of six hundred francs, redeemable in blessings and grateful thanks, my good woman! Bless my stars, I am not a bank of that sort!"

The sick woman had yielded to one of those wild, sudden hopes, which sometimes sway the most distrustful beings, and even the most hardened victims of implacable destiny. But the withering scorn it had brought upon her aroused all her ire and bitterness of heart.

"Pardon me, Monsieur, if I have insulted you!" she rejoined, with her habitual sardonic laugh.

"I am not offended, Mamma Lacombe," he returned magnanimously; "but let us come to the point. Shall I, yes or no, re-pocket these beautiful louis, which you take so much pleasure in handling?"

He stretched his hand toward the gold pieces, but she thrust it away with an instinctive movement and drew the shining coins nearer to her.

"One moment," she said hoarsely, her eyes glittering with cupidity in their deep orbits, "I shall not eat your gold!"

"That is just what I am urging you to do, Mamma Lacombe; I want you to eat that gold, on condition—"

"I know Mariette," she interrupted, her wistful gaze still fixed on the gold, "she will never consent."

"Nonsense!"

"I tell you she is an upright girl. She might, like many others, yield to a man she loved; but to you—never! She would refuse, I am sure. You may laugh, but she has ideas of her own."

"Granted, my good woman. I believe in Mariette's good principles, for Madame Jourdan has known her many years and she has full confidence in her."

"Well, then?"

"Well, I also know, Mamma Lacombe, that you possess great influence over her and that she fears you like the devil himself—so Madame Jourdan informed me. Now, you can induce, or, it need be, compel Mariette to accept happiness! For, after all, you are lodged like beggars and starving to death. Besides, if you refuse, do you know what will happen? The girl, with her fine sentiments of disinterestedness, will, sooner or later, become the victim of some unscrupulous rascal as poor as herself."

"That may be, but she will not have sold her soul."

"Tut, tut, tut, those are mere phrases. Some fine day, this lover of her choice will probably desert her; then, to save herself from starvation, she will end like the rest—mark my word."

"Yes, that may be," she repeated, with a dismal moan. "Hunger is a bad counselor, when we and our children have known its pangs. And how many of those poor, unhappy girls might be saved with this gold! And if Mariette were destined to end like them—would it not be better to yield now?"

For a few moments, the most varied emotions were depicted on the pale, emaciated features of the unhappy, crippled creature. With eyes still fixed hungrily on the glittering pieces, she strove to calm the struggle waged between misery and virtue in her heart; then, by a desperate effort, she closed her eyes as if to escape the fascination of the gold, and sank back wearily on her wretched pallet.

"Go, and leave me in peace!" she said feebly, as if exhausted by the violent conflict.

"What! you refuse?" he cried in amazement.