"P.S.—If you answer address your letter to the prison of La Force."
The reader can now comprehend the cause of the first grief of La Rigolette. Her excellent heart was profoundly affected at a calamity of which she had not had until then any suspicion. She believed implicitly in the entire veracity of the story of Germain. Not very severe, she even found that her old neighbor enormously exaggerated his fault. To save an unfortunate father, he had taken the money, which he knew he could return. This action, in the eyes of the grisette, was only generous.
By one of those inconsistencies natural to women, and above all, to those of her class, this girl, who until then had felt for Germain, as for her other neighbors, a joyous and cordial friendship, now acknowledged a decided preference.
As soon as she knew he was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a prisoner, she thought no more of his rivals.
With Rigolette it was not yet love; it was a lively, sincere affection, filled with commiseration and resolute devotion: a very new sentiment for her, from the bitterness which was joined to it. Such was her mental situation when Rudolph entered her room, after having discreetly knocked at the door.
"Good-day, my neighbor," said Rudolph; "I hope I do not disturb you?"
"No, neighbor; I am, on the contrary, very glad to see you, for I have much sorrow!"
"Why do I find you pale? you seem to have been weeping!"
"I should think I have wept! There is reason for it. Poor Germain! Here, read;" and Rigolette handed to Rudolph the letter. "If this is not enough to break one's heart! You told me you were interested in him. Now is the time to show it," added she, while Rudolph read attentively. "Is this villain, Ferrand, thirsting for the blood of everybody? First it was Louise, now it is Germain. Oh! I am not cruel; but if some misfortune should happen to this notary I should be content! To accuse such an honest young man of having stolen one thousand three hundred francs! Germain! truth and honesty itself, and then so regular, so mild, so sad—is he not to be pitied, among all these scoundrels-in prison! Oh! M. Rudolph, from to-day I begin to see that all is not couleur de rose in life."
"And what do you mean to do my neighbor?"
"Do? why, everything he asks, and as soon as possible. I should have already been off, but for this work, which I must finish and take to the Rue Saint Honore as I go to Germain's room to get the papers he speaks of. I have passed a part of the night in working, so as to gain some hours in advance. I am going to have so many things to do, besides my work, that I must get in readiness. In the first place, Madame Morel wishes me to see Louise in her prison? It is, perhaps, very difficult, but I will try. Unfortunately, I do not know who to address myself to."
"I have thought of that."
"You, my neighbor?"
"Here is a magistrate's order."
"What happiness! Can you not get me one also for the prison of this unfortunate Germain? it will give him so much pleasure."
"I will give you, also, the means to see Germain."
"Oh, thank you, M. Rudolph."
"You are not afraid, then, to go to the prison?"
"Very certain my heart will beat the first time. But never mind. When Germain was happy, did I not always find him ready to anticipate all my wishes? To take me to the theater, or a walk? to read to me at night? to assist me in arranging my flowers? to wax my floor? Well! now he is in trouble, it is my turn; a poor little mouse like me can't do much, I know; but all I can do I will do—he can count on it; he shall see whether I am a good friend! M. Rudolph, there is one thing that vexes me; it is his suspicion—he believes me capable of despising him! I ask you why? This old miser of a notary accuses him of theft; but what is that to me? I know it is not true. The letter of Germain proves as clear as day that he is innocent, whom I should never have thought guilty. Only to see him, to know him, shows he is incapable of a wrong action. One must be as wicked as M. Ferrand to maintain such false assertions."
"Bravo, neighbor, I like your indignation!"
"Oh! stop—I wish I was a man, to go see this notary, and say to him: 'Oh! you maintain that Germain has robbed you; well, look here, take that, you old liar, he won't steal this from you.' And I'd beat him to a mummy."
"You'd have very expeditious justice," said Rudolph, smiling at the animation of Rigolette.
"It is so revolting; and, as Germain says in his letter, everybody will take the master's part against him, because his master is rich, and thought much of, while Germain is a poor young man without protection; unless you come to his assistance, M. Rudolph, who know so many benevolent persons. Can nothing be done?"
"He must wait for his trial. Once acquitted, as I think he will be, numerous proofs of interest will be shown him, I assure you. But listen, my neighbor. I know from experience that I can count on your discretion."
"Oh, yes, M. Rudolph. I have never been a babbler."
"Well, no one must know, even Germain himself must be ignorant that he has friends who are watching over him, for he has friends."
"Really."
"Very powerful and very devoted."
"It would give him so much courage to know it."
"Doubtless; but perhaps he could not keep the secret. Then, M. Ferrand, alarmed, would be on his guard, his suspicions aroused; and as he is very cunning, he would make it difficult to get at him; which would be lamentable, for not only must the innocence of Germain be proved, but his calumniator unmasked."
"I understand you, M. Rudolph."
"Just so with Louise; I bring you this permission to see her, so that you can tell her not to speak to any one of what she had revealed to me. She will know what this means."
"That is sufficient, M. Rudolph."
"In a word, Louise must be careful not to complain in her prison of the conduct of her master; it is very important. But she must conceal nothing from the lawyer who will be sent by me to prepare for her defense; recommend all this to her."
"Be quite easy, neighbor; I will forget nothing. I have a good memory. But I speak of kindness, when it is you who are good and generous! If any one's in trouble, you are there at once!"
"I have told you, neighbor, I am only a poor clerk. When, in roving about, I find good people who deserve protection, I inform a benevolent person who has all confidence in me, and they are assisted."
"Where do you lodge, now that you have given up your room to the
Morels?"
"I lodge—in furnished lodgings."
"Oh, how I detest that. To be where everybody else has been—it is as if everybody had been in your own room."
"I am only there at night, and then—"
"I conceive—it is less disagreeable. My home, M. Rudolph, rendered me so happy; I had arranged a life so tranquil, that I should not have believed it possible to have a sorrow. Yet you see! No, I cannot tell you what a blow the misfortunes of Germain have caused me. I have seen the Morels and others—much to be pitied, it is true; but misery is misery. Among poor folks they expect it; it does not surprise them, and they help one another as they can. But to see a poor young man, honest, and good, who has been your friend for a long time, accused of theft, and imprisoned pell-mell with rogues and cut-throats! Oh, M. Rudolph! it is true I have no strength against this; it is a misfortune I have never thought of; it upsets me."
Rigolette's large eyes filled with tears.
"Courage, courage! your gayety will return when your friend is acquitted."
"Oh, he must be acquitted! They will only have to read to the judges the letter which he has written me—that will be enough, will it not, M. Rudolph?"
"In reality, this simple and touching letter has all the marks of truth. You must let me take a copy; it will be useful in his defense."
"Certainly, M. Rudolph. If I did not write like a real cat, in spite of the lessons Germain gave me, I should propose to copy it for you; but my writing is so coarse, so crooked, and besides, there are so many—so many faults."
"I only ask you to lend me this letter until tomorrow."
"There it is, neighbor; but you will take good care of it? I have burned all the billets doux which M. Cabrion and M. Girandeau wrote me at the commencement of our acquaintance, with bleeding hearts and doves on the top of the paper; but this poor letter of Germain, I will take good care of; it and others also, if he writes them. For, in truth M. Rudolph, it is a proof in my favor that he asks these little services."
"Without doubt it proves that you are the best little friend that one can have. But I reflect—instead of going by and by alone to M. Germain's, shall I accompany you?"
"With pleasure, neighbor. Night approaches, and I prefer not to be alone in the streets after dark, especially as I have to go near the Palais Royal. But to go so far will be tiresome and fatiguing to you, perhaps?"
"Not at all; we will take a hack."
"Really! Oh, how it would amuse me to go in a carriage, if I had not so much sorrow. And I must have sorrow, for this is the first day since I lived here that I have not sung. My birds are all astonished. Poor little things! they do not know what it means; two or three times Papa Cretu has sung a little to entice me. I wished to amuse him; but after a moment I began to weep; Ramonette then tried, but I could answer no more."
[Illustration: MENACED IN PRISON]
"What singular names you have given your birds—Papa Cretu, Ramonette?"
"M. Rudolph, my birds are the joy of my solitude; they are my best friends. I have given them the names of good people who were the joy of my childhood, my best friends. Without reckoning, to finish the resemblance, that Papa Cretu and Ramonette were as gay and tuneful as the birds of heaven. My adopted parents were thus called. They are ridiculous names for birds, I know; but it only concerns me. Now, it was on this very subject that I saw Germain had a good heart."
"He had, eh?"
"Certainly; M. Girandeau and M. Cabrion—M. Cabrion, above all—were forever making jokes on the names of my birds. 'To call a canary Papa Cretu, did you ever?' M. Cabrion never finished, and then he would laugh—such laughs. 'If it were a cock,' said he, 'very well, you I might call it Cretu (combed). It is the same with the other one; Ramonette sounds too much like Ramoneur (chimney sweep).' At length he made me so angry that I would not go out with him for two Sundays, just to teach him; and I told him, very seriously, that if he recommenced his jokes, which were unpleasant to me, we should never go out together again."
"What a courageous resolution!"
"It cost me a good deal, M. Rudolph—I looked so eagerly for my Sunday excursions. I had a sorrowful heart, I tell you, to remain home all alone of a fine day; but never mind, I preferred rather to sacrifice my Sunday than to continue to hear M. Cabrion make fun of what I respected. Except for this, and the ideas attached to it, I would have preferred to give other names to my birds. There is, above all, one name I should have loved to adoration—Humming-Bird. Well, I cannot do it, because I never shall call my birds otherwise than Cretu and Ramonette; it would seem to me that I sacrificed them, that I forgot my kind adopted parents-wouldn't it, M. Rudolph?"
"You are right-a thousand times right. Germain did not make fun of these names?"
"On the contrary; only the first time it appeared droll to him, as to every one else—it is very simple; but when I explained my reasons, as I had explained them to M. Cabrion, the tears came into his eyes. From that day I said, `M. Germain has a kind heart; he has nothing against him but his sadness.' And do you see, M. Rudolph, that he has brought me misfortune to reproach him for his sadness. Then I did not comprehend how one could be sad. Now I comprehend it but too well. But now my work is finished, will you give me my shawl, neighbor It is not cold enough for a cloak, is it?"
"We shall go in a carriage, and I will bring you back."
"It is true, we shall go and return quicker; it will be so much time gained."
"But, on reflection, how are you going to manage? Your work will suffer from your visit to the prisons?"
"Oh no, no! I have laid my plans. In the first place, I have my Sundays; I will go and see Louise and Germain on these days—it will serve me for a walk and recreation; then, in the week, I shall go to the prison once or twice; each time will cost me three good hours a day. Well, to make up for this, I will work one hour more each day, and I will go to bed at twelve o'clock instead of eleven; that will give me a clear gain of seven or eight hours each week, which I can use in going to see Louise and Germain. You see, I am richer than I appear to be," added Rigolette, smiling.
"And do you not fear this will fatigue you?"
"Bah! I can do it—one can do anything; and, besides, it will not last forever."
"Here is your shawl, neighbor. I shall not be so indiscreet as to bring my lips too close to this charming neck."
"Oh, neighbor! take care, you prick me."
"Come, the pin is crooked."
"Well, take another—there, on the pincushion. Oh, I forget! Will you do me a favor, neighbor?"
"Command, neighbor."
"Make me a good pen, very coarse, so that I can, on my return, write to poor Germain that his commissions are executed. He shall have my letter to-morrow morning early."
"And where are your pens?"
"There, on the table; the knife is in the drawer. Stop, I am going to light my candle, for it grows quite dark."
"I shall want it to mend the pen."
"And, besides, I can't see to tie my bonnet."
Rigolette took a match, and lit an end of candle, which was in a very shining candlestick.
"Dear me! wax candle, neighbor—what luxury!"
"The little I burn costs me a trifle more than a tallow candle, but it is so much neater."
"Not much dearer?"
"Oh, no. I buy these ends of candles by the pound, and a half-pound serves me a month."
"But," said Rudolph, mending the pen carefully, while the grisette tied her bonnet before the glass, "I see no preparations for your dinner."
"I haven't a shadow of hunger. I took a cup of milk this morning; I will take another to-night, with a little bread! I shall have enough."
"Will you not come and eat dinner with me when we come away from
Germain's?"
"I thank you, neighbor; I have my heart too full; another time with pleasure. What do you say to the evening of the day that poor Germain comes out of prison? I invite myself, and afterward we will go to the play. Is it agreed?"
"It is, neighbor; I assure you that I shall not forget this engagement. But to-day you refuse me?"
"Yes, M. Rudolph; I should be too stupid to-day; besides, it would take up too much time. Only think—it is now, if ever, that I must not be lazy."
"Come, I will give up this pleasure for to-day."
"Here, take my bundle, neighbor; go before, I will shut the door."
"Here is an excellent pen—now, your bundle."
"Take care you don't tumble it—it is poult de soie—it shows the folds—hold it in your hand—that way—lightly. Well, pass on, I will light you."
Rudolph descended, preceded by Rigolette. As they passed the lodge they saw Pipelet, who, with his arms hanging down, advanced toward them from the bottom of the alley. In one hand he held the sign, which announced to the public that he would "deal in friendship" with Cabrion; and in the other, the portrait of the infernal painter.
The despair of Alfred was so overwhelming that his chin rested on his breast, and nothing could be seen but the top of his hat. On seeing him approach, with his head down, toward Rudolph and Rigolette, one would have said it was a goat or a negro butt preparing for combat. Anastasia appeared on the threshold, and cried at the sight of her husband. "Well, old darling! here you are, hey? What did the commissary say to you? Alfred, pay attention; now you are going to poke yourself against my prince of lodgers. Who has stolen your eyes? Pardon, M. Rudolph; that beggar Cabrion stupefies him more and more— he certainly will make him turn to a jackass, my poor love! Alfred, answer!"
At this voice, so dear to his heart, Pipelet raised his head; his features were imprinted with a melancholy bitterness.
"What did the commissary say to you?" repeated Anastasia.
"Anastasia, we must collect the little that we possess, clasp our friends in our arms, pack our trunks, and expatriate ourselves from France-from my 'belle France!'-for, sure now of impunity, the monster is capable of pursuing me everywhere."
"Then, the commissary!"
"The commissary!" cried Pipelet, with savage indignation; "the commissary laughed in my face."
"Your face! an aged man, who has so respectable an air, that you'd look as stupid as a goose if one did not know your virtues."
"Well, notwithstanding that, when I had respectfully deposed before him my heap of complaints and griefs against this infernal Cabrion, this magistrate, after looking at and laughing—yes, laughing—I say, laughing indecently—over the sign and portrait which I produced as justificatory of my complaint, replied, 'My good man, this Cabrion is a funny fellow—a jester—pay no attention to his jokes. I advise you now, in a friendly manner, to laugh at them, for really there is cause.' 'To laugh!' cried I; 'to laugh! but grief is devouring me—my existence is imbittered by those scoundrels—they pester me—they will cause me to lose my reason—I demand that they be locked up—exiled, at least from my street.' At these words the commissary smiled, and obligingly showed me the door. I understood this gesture of the magistrate, and here I am."
"Magistrate of nothing at all!" cried Mrs. Pipelet.
"All is finished! Anastasia, all is finished! No more hope! There is no longer any justice in France! I am atrociously sacrificed!" and by way of peroration, Pipelet threw, with all his strength, the portrait and sign to the end of the alley. Rudolph and Rigolette had, in the obscurity, slightly smiled at Pipelet's despair. After having addressed some words of consolation to Alfred, whom Anastasia was calming in the best way she could, the "prince of lodgers" left the house of the Rue du Temple with Rigolette, and got into a hackney coach to go to the residence of Francois Germain.
CHAPTER XX.
THE WILL.
Francois Germain lived on the Boulevard Saint Denis, No. 11. During the long ride from the Rue du Temple to the Rue Saint Honore, where the woman lived who supplied Rigolette with work, Rudolph was able to appreciate still more the girl's excellent feelings. Like all characters instinctively good and devoted, she was not conscious of the delicacy and generosity of her conduct, which seemed to her quite natural.
Nothing would have been easier for Rudolph than to have made a liberal provision for Rigolette, as well for her present wants as the future, so that she could have gone charitably to console Louise and Germain, without counting the time she lost in these visits from her work, her only resource; but the prince feared to weaken the merit of the grisette's devotion in rendering it too easy; quite decided to recompense the rare and charming qualities which he had discovered in her, he wished to follow her to the end of this new and interesting trial. At the end of an hour the carriage, on its return from her Rue Saint Honore, stopped on the Boulevard Saint Denis, No. 11, before a house of modest appearance.
Rudolph assisted Rigolette to alight; she entered the porter's lodge and communicated to him the intentions of Germain, without forgetting the promised gratuity. From his amenity of disposition, the clerk was everywhere loved. The confrere of Pipelet was much concerned to learn that the house should lose so honest and quiet a lodger: such were his expressions. The grisette, furnished with a light, rejoined her companion; the porter was to follow, after a little while, to receive instructions. The chamber of Germain was on the fourth story. On arriving at the door, Rigolette said to Rudolph, giving him the key, "Here, neighbor, open—my hand trembles too much. You will laugh at me; but, in thinking that poor Germain will never return here, it seems to me I am about to enter a chamber of the dead."
"Come, be reasonable now, neighbor—have no such ideas!"
"I was wrong, but it was stronger than I;" and she wiped away a tear.
Without being as much moved as his companion, Rudolph nevertheless experienced a painful impression on entering the modest apartment. He knew that the unfortunate young man must have passed many sad hours in this solitude. Rigolette placed the light on a table. Nothing could be more plain than the furniture of this sleeping-room, composed of a bed, a chest of drawers, a secretary of black walnut, four straw-bottomed chairs, and a table; white cotton curtains covered the windows and the bed recess; the only ornaments on the mantelpiece were a decanter and a glass. From the appearance of the bed, which was made, it could be seen that Germain had thrown himself upon it without taking off his clothes the night preceding his arrest.
"Poor fellow," said Rigolette, sadly, examining, with interest, the interior of the chamber: "it is easy to see that lie no longer has me for a neighbor. It is in order, but not neat; there is dust everywhere, the curtains are smoked, the windows are dirty, the floor is not washed. Oh! what a difference! Rue du Temple was not handsome, but it was more gay, because everything shone with neatness, like my own room."
"It was because you were there, to give your advice."
"But see, now," cried Rigolette, showing the bed, "he did not go to rest the other night, so much was he disturbed. Look here! his handkerchief, which he has left, has been steeped in tears. That is plain to be seen;" and she took it, adding, "Germain has kept a little orange silk cravat of mine, which I gave him when we were happy; I am sure he will not be angry."
"On the contrary, he will be very happy at this proof of your affection."
"Now let us think of serious matters; I will make a package of linen, which I shall find in the drawers, to take to him in prison; Mother Bouvard, whom I shall send here to-morrow, will manage the rest. First, however, I'll open the secretary and take out the papers and money which M. Germain begged me keep for him."
"But while I think of it," said Rudolph, "Louise Morel gave me, yesterday, one thousand three hundred francs in gold, which Germain had given her to pay the debt of her father, which I had already done; I have this money; it belongs to Germain, since he has paid back the notary; I will give it to you; you can add it to the rest."
"As you please, M. Rudolph; yet I would rather not have so large a sum with me at home, there are so many robbers nowadays. Papers are very well—there is nothing to fear; but money is dangerous."
"Perhaps you are right, neighbor; shall I take charge of this sum? If Germain has need of anything, you must let me know at once. I will leave you my address, and I will send you what he wants."
"I should not have dared to ask this service from you; it will be much better, neighbor. I will give you also the money I shall receive from the sale of his effects. Let us see the papers," said the girl, opening the secretary and several drawers. "Ah, it is probably this. Here is a large envelope. Oh, my gracious! look here, M. Rudolph, how sad it is what's written on this." And she read, in a faltering tone:
"In case I should die a violent death, or otherwise, I beg the person who should open this secretary to carry these papers to Mlle. Rigolette, seamstress, Rue du Temple, No. 17."
"Can I break the seal, M. Rudolph?"
"Doubtless; does he not say that among these papers there is one particularly addressed to you?"
The girl broke the seal. Several papers were inclosed; one of them, bearing the superscription, "To Mademoiselle Rigolette" contained these words: "Mademoiselle—When you read this letter, I shall no longer exist. If, as I fear, I die a violent death, in falling a victim to willful murder, some information, under the title of Notes of my Life may give a clew to my assassins."
"Ah! M. Rudolph," said Rigolette, "I am no longer astonished that he was so sad. Poor Germain! always pursued by such ideas!"
"Yes; he must have been much afflicted. But his worst days are over, believe me."
"I hope so, M. Rudolph. But, however, to be in prison, accused of robbery!"
"Be comforted. Once his innocence recognized, instead of falling into an isolated state, he will find friends. You, in the first place; then a beloved mother, from whom he has been separated since his childhood."
"His mother! He has still a mother?"
"Yes. She thinks him lost to her. Judge of her joy when she will see him again. Do not speak to him of his mother. I confide this secret to you, because you interest yourself so generously in his favor."
"I thank you, M. Rudolph; you may be assured I will keep your secret," and Rigolette continued the reading of the letter:
"If you will, mademoiselle, look over these notes, you will see that I have been all my life very unhappy, except during the time I passed with you. What I should never have dared to tell you, you will find written here, entitled 'My sole days of happiness.'
"Almost every evening, on leaving you, I thus poured out the consoling thoughts that your affection inspired, and which alone tempered the bitterness of my life. What was friendship when with you, became love when absent from you. I have concealed this until this moment, when I shall be no more for you than perhaps a sad souvenir. My destiny was so unhappy, that I should never have spoken to you of this sentiment; although sincere and profound, it would only have made you unhappy.
"One wish alone remains to be fulfilled, and I hope that you will accomplish it. I have seen with what admirable courage you work, and how much method and economy was necessary for you to live on the small amount you earn so industriously. Often, without telling, you, I have trembled in thinking that a malady, caused, perhaps, by excess of labor, might reduce you to a situation so frightful that I could not even think of it without alarm. It is very grateful to me to think that I can at least spare you the horrors, and, perhaps, in a great degree, the miseries, which you, in the thoughtlessness of youth, do not foresee, happily."
"What does he mean, M. Rudolph?" said Rigolette, astonished.
"Continue, we shall see."
"I know on how little you can live, and what a resource the smallest sum would be to you in a time of difficulty. I am very poor, but, by economy, I have set aside one thousand five hundred francs, deposited at a banker's; it is all that I possess. By my will, which you will find here, I bequeath it to you; accept it from a friend, a good brother, who is no more."
"Oh! M. Rudolph," said Rigolette, bursting into tears, and giving the letter to the prince, "this gives me too much pain. Good Germain, thus to think of me! Oh! what a heart! what an excellent heart!"
"Worthy and good young man!" replied Rudolph, with emotion. "But calm yourself, my child. Germain is not dead; this anticipation will only serve as a witness of his love for you."
"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.
The widow bit her lip and continued to work, but she appeared to handle the needle more quickly. Calabash replenished the fire, and resumed her seat alongside of her mother.
"Nicholas does not come," said she. "I hope the old woman who was here this morning, in giving him a rendezvous with Bradamanti, has not got him into some bad scrape. She had such a queer air; she would not explain or tell her name, or where she came from." The widow shrugged her shoulders.
"You think there is no danger for Nicholas, mother? After all, perhaps, you are right. The old woman said he must be on the Quai de Billy at seven in the evening, opposite the dock, where he would find a man who wished to speak to him, and who would say 'Bradamanti' for password. Really, that does not seem so very dangerous. If Nicholas is late, it is, perhaps, because he has found something on the way, as he did yesterday—this linen, boned from a washing-boat;" and she showed one of the pieces of linen which Amandine was unmarking; then, speaking to the child, she said, "What does boning mean?"
"This means to take," answered the child, without raising her eyes.
"It means to steal, little fool; do you hear, to steal?"
"Yes, sister."
"And when one knows how to bone like Nicholas there is always something to gain. The linen he picked up yesterday has only cost us the trouble of picking out the marks—eh, mother?" said Calabash, with a burst of laughter which displayed her decayed teeth, as yellow as her skin. The widow did not laugh.
"Apropos of getting things gratis," continued Calabash, "we can, perhaps, furnish ourselves from another shop. You know that an old man, two or three days since, came to live in the country-house of M. Griffion, the physician of the Paris Hospital—the lonely house a few steps from the river, opposite the plaster quarry?" The widow bowed her head.
"Nicholas said yesterday that now there was, perhaps, a good job to be done there. And I know, since this morning, that there is some booty there for certain. I must send Amandine to wander around the house; they will pay no attention to her; she will pretend to be playing, will look well about her, and then come and let us know what she has seen. Do you hear what I say?"
"Yes, sister, I will go," answered the trembling child.
"You always say 'I will' but you never do it, you sly puss. The time I told you to take the five francs from the counter of the grocer at Asnieres, while I kept him busy at the other end of his shop—it was very easy; no one suspects a child—why didn't you obey?"
"Sister, my heart failed me: I did not dare."
"The other day you dared to steal a handkerchief from the peddler's pack while he was selling at the tavern. Did he find it out, fool?"
"Sister, you forced me—it was for you; and, besides, it was not money."
"What of that?"
"To take a handkerchief is not so bad as to take money."
"On my word! Martial teaches you these whims doesn't he?" said Calabash, in an ironical manner. "You'll go and tell him everything, little spy! Do you think we are afraid that he'll eat us?" Then, addressing the widow, Calabash added, "Mother, this will end badly for him; he wants to lay down the law here. Nicholas is furious against him; so am I. He sets Amandine and Francois against us, against you. Can it be borne?"
"No!" said the mother, in a short, harsh voice.
"It is especially since his Louve was Saint-Lazared that he has gone on like a madman. Is it our fault that she is in prison? When she is once out of prison, let her come here, and I will serve her out—good measure—though she is strong."
The widow, after a moment's pause, said to her daughter, "You think there is something to be done with the old man who lives in the doctor's house?"
"Yes, mother."
"He looks like a beggar."
"That doesn't prevent his being a noble."
"A noble?"
"Yes; or that he should have gold in his purse, although he goes to Paris on foot every day, and returns in the same manner, with his heavy stick for his carriage."
"How do you know that he has gold?"
"The other day I was at the post-office, to see if there were any letters from Toulon."
At these words, which brought to her mind her son at the galleys, the widow knit her brows and suppressed a sigh.
Calabash continued: "I awaited my turn, when the old man we speak of came in. I twigged him at once by his beard, as white as his hair, and his black eyebrows. In spite of his hair, he must be a determined old man. He said, 'Have you any letters from Angers for the Count of Saint Remy?' 'Yes,' was the answer, 'here is one.' 'It is for me,' said he; 'here is my passport.' While the postmaster examined it, the old man drew out his purse to pay the postage. At one end I saw the gold glittering through the meshes, at least forty or fifty louis," cried Calabash, her eyes twinkling, "and yet he is dressed like a beggar. He is one of those old misers who are stuffed with gold. Come, mother, we know his name; it may serve us to get into the crib when Amandine finds out if he has any servants."
A violent barking of the dogs interrupted Calabash. "Oh, the dogs bark," said she; "they hear a boat. It is either Martial or Nicholas."
After a few moments the door opened, and Nicholas Martial made his appearance. His face was ignoble and ferocious; small, thin, pitiful, it could hardly be imagined that he followed so dangerous a calling; but an indomitable energy supplied the place of the physical strength which was wanting. Over his blue slop he wore a great-coat, without sleeves, made of goat-skin with long hair. On entering he threw on the ground a roll of copper which he had on his shoulder.
"Good-night, and good booty, mother," cried he, in a cracked voice; "there are three more rolls in my boat, a bundle of clothes, and a box filled with I don't know what, for I have not amused myself by opening it. Perhaps I am sold—we shall see."
"And what about the man at the Quai de Billy?" asked Calabash, while the widow looked at her son without saying a word.
He, for sole answer, put his hand in his pocket and jingled together a number of pieces of silver.
"You took all that from him?" cried Calabash.
"No, he shelled out himself two hundred francs, and he will come down with eight hundred more when I shall have—but enough; let us unload the boat; we can jaw afterward. Isn't Martial here?"
"No," said the sister.
"So much the better; we will lock up the booty without him; just as well he shouldn't know."
"You are afraid of him, coward!" said Calabash, crossly.
"Afraid of him? me!" He shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid he'll sell us, that's all. As to the fear, my sticker has too sharp a tongue."
"Oh, when he is not here, you brag; let him but come, that shuts your bill."
Nicholas appeared insensible to this reproach, and said, "Come, quick! quick! to the boat. Where is Francois, mother? He could help us."
"Mother has shut him upstairs, after having dressed him nicely; he goes to bed without supper," said Calabash.
"Good; but let him come and help us unload the boat all the same—eh, mother? Calabash, him, and me, in a twist, will have all housed."
The widow pointed upward. Calabash understood, and went to look for
Francois.
The gloomy visage of Mother Martial had become slightly relaxed since the arrival of Nicholas; she liked him better than Calabash, but not as well as she did her Toulon son, as she called him; for the maternal love of this ferocious creature increased in proportion to the criminality of her offspring. This perverse preference sufficiently explains the dislike of the widow to her youngest children, who displayed no bad tendencies, and her profound hatred for Martial, her eldest son, who, without leading a blameless life, might have passed for a very honest man if he had been compared to Nicholas, Calabash, or his brother, the galley—slave at Toulon.
[Illustration: THE PILLAGE ]
"Where have you been plundering to-night?" asked the widow.
"On returning from the Quai de Billy, I cast a sheep's-eye upon a barge fastened to the quay near the Invalides Bridge. It was dark; I said, no light in the cabin—the sailors are on shore—I'll go on board; if I meet any one, I'll ask for a piece of seizing to mend my oar. I went into the cabin—nobody; then I took what I could, some clothes, a large box, and, on the deck, four rolls of copper; for I returned twice. The barge was loaded with copper and iron. But here come Francois and Calabash. Quick, to the boat! Come, be moving—you, too, Amandine. You can carry the clothes. A dog learns to carry before he is taught hunting."
Left alone, the widow busied herself in preparing the supper for the family, placing on the table glasses, bottles, plates, and silver forks and spoons. Just as she finished her preparation, her children returned heavily laden. The weight of the two rolls, which he carried on his shoulders, seemed almost to crush Francois. Amandine was hardly visible under the bundle of clothes which she carried on her head. Nicholas and Calabash carried between them a deal box, on the top of which was placed the fourth roll of copper.
"The box, the box!" cried Calabash, with impatience. "Let us air the case!" The copper was thrown on the ground. Nicholas, armed with a hatchet, endeavored to get it under the cover, so as to force it up. The red flickering light from the earth illuminated this scene of pillage; without, the wind howled with renewed violence. Nicholas, kneeling before the box, tried to break it, and uttered the most horrible oaths on seeing his efforts useless. Her eyes glistening with cupidity, her cheeks flushing, Calabash kneeled on the box, and assisted Nicholas with all her strength. The widow, separated from the group by the table, where she stood at full length, also had her eager gaze fixed on the stolen object.
Finally, a thing, alas! too human, the two children, whose good natural instincts had so often triumphed over the cursed influence of this abominable domestic corruption, forgetting their scruples and their fears, gave way to the attractions of a fatal curiosity. Leaning against one another, their eyes sparkling, their breathing oppressed, Francois and Amandine were not less anxious to know the contents of the box than their brother or sister. At length the top was forced off.
"Ah!" cried the family, in a joyful tone. And all, from the mother to the little girl, crowded around the stolen case. Without doubt, consigned by some Paris merchant to some of his country customers, it contained a large quantity of articles for women's use.