"My lord, I pray you do not think that I would for a moment assert that you have bestowed your benefits unworthily."
"One word more, my old friend. You know well that the child whose death I daily deplore—that that daughter whom I should have loved the more, as her unworthy mother, Sarah, had shown herself so utterly indifferent about her—would have been sixteen years of age, like this unhappy girl. You know, too, that I cannot prevent the deep, and almost painful, sympathy I feel for young girls of that age."
"True, my lord; and I ought so to have interpreted the interest you evince for your protégée. Besides, to succour the unfortunate is to honour God."
"It is, my friend, when the objects deserve it; and thus nothing is more worthy of compassion and respect than a woman like Madame Georges, who, brought up by a pious and good mother in the strict observance of all her duties, has never failed,—never! and has, moreover, courageously borne herself in the midst of the most severe trials. But is it not to honour God in the most acceptable way, to raise from the dust one of those beings of the finest mould, whom he has been pleased to endow richly? Does not she deserve compassion and respect,—yes, respect,—who, unhappy girl! abandoned to her own instinct,—who, tortured, imprisoned, degraded, sullied, has yet preserved, in holiness and pureness of heart, those noble germs of good first implanted by the Almighty? If you had but seen, poor child! how, at the first word of interest expressed for her,—the first mark of kindness and right feeling,—the most charming natural impulses, the purest tastes, the most refined thoughts, the most poetic ideas, developed themselves abundantly in her ingenuous mind, even as, in the early spring, a thousand wild flowers lift up their heads at the first rays of the sun! In a conversation of about an hour with Fleur-de-Marie, I have discovered treasures of goodness, worth, prudence,—yes, prudence, old Murphy. A smile came to my lips, and a tear in my eye, when, in her gentle and sensible prattle, she urged on me the necessity of saving forty sous a day, that I might be beyond want or evil temptations. Poor little creature! she said all this with so serious and persuasive a tone. She seemed so delighted to give me good advice, and experienced so extreme a pleasure in hearing me promise to follow it! I was moved even to tears; and you,—it affects you, my old friend."
"It does, my lord; the idea of making you lay by forty sous a day, thinking you a workman, instead of urging you to spend money on her; that does touch me."
"Hush; here are Madame Georges and Marie. Get all ready for our departure; we must be in Paris in good time."
Thanks to the care of Madame Georges, Fleur-de-Marie was no longer like her former self. A pretty peasant's cap, and two thick braids of light brown hair, encircled her charming face. A large handkerchief of white muslin crossed her bosom, and disappeared under the high fold of a small shot taffetas apron, whose blue and red shades appeared to advantage over a dark nun's dress, which seemed expressly made for her. The young girl's countenance was calm and composed. Certain feelings of delight produce in the mind an unspeakable sadness,—a holy melancholy. Rodolph was not surprised at the gravity of Fleur-de-Marie; he had expected it. Had she been merry and talkative, she would not have retained so high a place in his good opinion. In the serious and resigned countenance of Madame Georges might easily be traced the indelible marks of long-suffering; but she looked at Fleur-de-Marie with a tenderness and compassion quite maternal, so much gentleness and sweetness did this poor girl evince.
"Here is my child, who has come to thank you for your goodness, M. Rodolph," said Madame Georges, presenting Goualeuse to Rodolph.
At the words, "my child," Goualeuse turned her large eyes slowly towards her protectress, and contemplated her for some moments with a look of unutterable gratitude.
"Thanks for Marie, my dear Madame Georges; she deserves this kind interest, and always will deserve it."
"M. Rodolph," said Goualeuse, with a trembling voice, "you understand, I know, I feel that you do, that I cannot find anything to say to you."
"Your emotion tells me all, my child."
"Oh, she feels deeply the good fortune that has come to her so providentially," said Madame Georges, deeply affected; "her first impulse on entering my room was to prostrate herself before my crucifix."
"Because now, thanks to you, M. Rodolph, I dare to pray," said Goualeuse.
Murphy turned away hastily; his pretensions to firmness would not allow of any one seeing to what extent the simple words of Goualeuse had touched him.
Rodolph said to her, "My child, I wish to have some conversation with Madame Georges. My friend Murphy will lead you over the farm, and introduce you to your future protégés. We will join you presently. Well, Murphy, Murphy, don't you hear me?"
The worthy gentleman turned his back, and pretended to blow his nose with a very loud noise, then put his handkerchief in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyes, and, turning half around, offered his arm to Marie, managing so skilfully that neither Rodolph nor Madame Georges could see his face. Taking the arm of Marie, he walked away with her towards the farm buildings, and so quickly, that, to keep up with him, Goualeuse was obliged to run, as in her infant days she ran beside the Chouette.
"Well, Madame Georges, what do you think of Marie?" inquired Rodolph.
"M. Rodolph, I have told you: she had scarcely entered my room, when, seeing the crucifix, she fell on her knees before it. It is impossible for me to tell you, to describe the spontaneous and naturally religious feeling that evidently dictated this. I saw in an instant that hers was no degraded soul. And then, M. Rodolph, the expression of her gratitude to you had nothing exaggerated in it; but it is not the less sincere. And I have another proof of how natural and potent is this religious instinct in her. I said to her, 'You must have been much astonished, and very happy, when M. Rodolph told you that you were to remain here for the future? What an effect it must have had on you!' 'Yes, oh, yes,' was her reply; 'when M. Rodolph told me so, I cannot describe what passed within me; but I felt that kind of holy happiness which I experience in going into a church. When I could go there,' she added, 'for you know, madame—' 'I know, my child, for I shall always call you my child (I could not let her go on when I saw her cover her face for shame), I know that you have suffered deeply; but God blesses those who love and fear him, those who have been unhappy, and those who repent.'"
"Then, my good Madame Georges, I am doubly happy at what I have done. This poor girl will greatly interest you, her disposition is so excellent, her instincts so right."
"What has besides affected me, M. Rodolph, is that she has not allowed one single question to escape her about you, although her curiosity must be so much excited. Struck with a reserve so full of delicacy, I wished to know what she felt. I said to her, 'You must be very curious to know who your mysterious benefactor is?' 'Know him!' she replied, with delightful simplicity; 'he is my benefactor.'"
"Then you will love her. Excellent woman! she will find some interest in your heart."
"Yes, I shall occupy my heart with her as I should with him," said Madame Georges, in a broken voice.
Rodolph took her hand.
"Do not be discouraged; come, come, if our search has been unsuccessful so far, yet one day, perhaps—"
Madame Georges shook her head sorrowfully, and said, in bitter accents, "My poor son would be now twenty years old!"
"Say he is that age—"
"God hear you, and grant it, M. Rodolph."
"He will hear, I fully believe. Yesterday I went (but in vain) to find a certain fellow called Bras Rouge who might, perhaps, have given me some information about your son. Coming away from this Bras Rouge's abode, after a struggle in which I was engaged, I met with this unfortunate girl—"
"Alas! but your kind endeavour in my behalf has thrown in your way another unfortunate being, M. Rodolph."
"You have no intelligence from Rochefort?"
"None," said Madame Georges, shuddering, and in a low voice.
"So much the better! We can no longer doubt but that the monster met his death in the attempt to escape from the—"
Rodolph hesitated to pronounce the horrible word.
"From the Bagne? Oh, say it!—the Bagne!" exclaimed the wretched woman with horror, and almost frantic as she spoke. "The father of my child! Ah! if the unhappy boy still lives—if, like me, he has not changed his name—oh, shame! shame! And yet it may be nothing: his father has, perhaps, carried out his horrid threat! What has he done with my boy? Why did he tear him from me?"
"That mystery I cannot fathom," said Rodolph, with a pensive air. "What could induce the wretch to carry off your son fifteen years ago, and when he was trying to escape into a foreign land? A child of that age could only embarrass his flight."
"Alas, M. Rodolph! when my husband" (the poor woman shuddered as she pronounced the word) "was arrested on the frontier and thrown into prison, where I was allowed to visit him, he said to me these horrible words: 'I took away the brat because you were fond of him, and it will be a means of compelling you to send me money, which may or may not be of service to him,—that's my affair. Whether he lives or dies it is no matter to you; but if he lives, he will be in good hands: you shall drink as deep of the shame of the son as you have of the disgrace of the father!' Alas! a month afterwards my husband was condemned to the galleys for life; and since then all my entreaties, my prayers, and letters have been in vain. I have never been able to learn the fate of my boy. Ah, M. Rodolph! where is my child at this moment? These frightful words are always ringing in my ears: 'You shall drink as deep of the shame of the son as you have of the disgrace of the father!'"
"This atrocity is most inexplicable; why should he demoralise the unhappy child? Why carry him off?"
"I have told you, M. Rodolph,—to compel me to send him money; although he had nearly ruined me, yet I had still some small resources, but they at length were exhausted also. In spite of his wickedness, I could not believe but that he would employ, at least, a portion of this money in the bringing-up of this unhappy child."
"And your son had no sign, no mark, by which he could be recognised?"
"No other than that of which I have spoken to you, M. Rodolph,—a small Saint Esprit, sculptured in lapis lazuli, tied round his neck by a chain of silver: a sacred relic, blessed by the holy father."
"Courage, courage; God is all-powerful."
"Providence placed me in your path, M. Rodolph."
"Too late, Madame Georges; too late. I might have saved you many years of sorrow."
"Ah, M. Rodolph, how kind you have been to me!"
"In what way? I bought this farm; in time of your prosperity you were not idle, and now you have become my manager here, where—thanks to your excellent superintendence, intelligence, and activity—this establishment produces me—"
"Produces you, my lord?" said Madame Georges, interrupting Rodolph; "why, all the returns are employed, not only in ameliorating the condition of the labourers, who consider the occupation on this model farm as a great favour, but, moreover, to succour all the needy in the district; through the mediation of our good Abbé Laporte—"
"Ah, the dear abbé!" said Rodolph, desirous of escaping the praise of Madame Georges; "have you had the kindness to inform him of my arrival? I wish to recommend my protégée to him. He has had my letter?"
"Mr. Murphy gave it to him when he came this morning."
"In that letter I told our good curé, in a few words, the history of this poor girl. I was not sure that I should be able to come to-day myself, and if not, then Murphy would have conducted Marie—"
A labourer of the farm interrupted this conversation, which had been carried on in the garden.
"Madame, M. le Curé is waiting for you."
"Are the post-horses arrived, my lad?" inquired Rodolph.
"Yes, M. Rodolph; and they are putting to." And the man left the garden.
Madame Georges, the curé, and the inhabitants of the farm only knew Fleur-de-Marie's protector as M. Rodolph. Murphy's discretion was faultless; and although when in private he was very precise in "my-lording" Rodolph, yet before strangers he was very careful not to address him otherwise than as M. Rodolph.
"I forgot to mention, my dear Madame Georges," said Rodolph, when he returned to the house, "that Marie has, I fear, very weak lungs,—privations and misery have tried her health. This morning early I was struck with the pallor of her countenance, although her cheeks were of a deep rose colour; her eyes, too, seem to me to have a brilliancy which betokens a feverish system. Great care must be taken of her."
"Rely on me, M. Rodolph; but, thank God! there is nothing serious to apprehend. At her age, in the country, with pure air, rest, and quiet, she will soon be quite restored."
"I hope so; but I will not trust to your country doctors. I will desire Murphy to bring here my medical man,—a negro,—a very skilful person, who will tell you the best regimen to pursue. You must send me news of Marie very often. Some time hence, when she shall be better, and more at ease, we will talk about her future life; perhaps it would be best that she always remained with you, if you were pleased with her."
"I should like it greatly, M. Rodolph; she would supply the place of the child I have lost, and must for ever bewail."
"Let us still hope for you and for her."
At the moment when Rodolph and Madame Georges approached the farm, Murphy and Marie also entered. The worthy gentleman let go the arm of Goualeuse, and said to Rodolph in a low voice, and with an air of some confusion:
"This girl has bewitched me; I really do not know which interests me most, she or Madame Georges. I was a brute—a beast!"
"I knew, old Murphy, that you would do justice to my protégée," said Rodolph, smiling, and shaking hands with the squire.
Madame Georges, leaning on Marie's arm, entered with her into a small room on the ground floor, where the Abbé Laporte was waiting. Murphy went away, to see all ready for their departure. Madame Georges, Marie, Rodolph, and the curé remained together.
Plain, but very comfortable, this small apartment was fitted up with green hangings, like the rest of the house, as had been exactly described to Goualeuse by Rodolph. A thick carpet covered the floor, a good fire burnt in the grate, and two large nosegays of daisies of all colours, placed in two crystal vases, shed their agreeable odour throughout the room. Through the windows, with their green blinds, which were half opened, was to be seen the meadow, the little stream, and, beyond it, the bank planted with chestnut-trees.
The Abbé Laporte, who was seated near the fireplace, was upwards of eighty years of age, and had, ever since the last days of the Revolution, done duty in this small parish. Nothing can be imagined more venerable than his aged, withered, and somewhat melancholy countenance, shaded by long white locks, which fell on the collar of his black cassock, which was pieced in more places than one; the abbé liked better, as they said, to clothe one or two poor children in good warm broadcloth, than faire le muguet; that is, to wear his cassocks less than two or three years. The good abbé was so old, so very old, that his hands trembled continually, and when he occasionally lifted them up, when speaking, it might have been supposed that he was giving a benediction.
"M. l'Abbé," said Rodolph, respectfully, "Madame Georges has undertaken the guardianship of this young girl, for whom I also beg your kindness."
"She is entitled to it, sir, like all who come to us. The mercy of God is inexhaustible, my dear child, and he has evinced it in not abandoning you in most severe trials. I know all." And he took the hand of Marie in his own withered and trembling palms. "The generous man who has saved you has realised the words of Holy Writ, 'The Lord is near to all those who call upon him; he will fulfil the desire of those who fear him; he will hear their cries, and he will save them.' Now deserve his bounty by your conduct, and you will always find one ready to encourage and sustain you in the good path on which you have entered. You will have in Madame Georges a constant example, in me a careful adviser. The Lord will finish his work."
"And I will pray to him for those who have had compassion on me and have led me to him, father," said La Goualeuse, throwing herself on her knees before the priest. Her emotion overcame her; her sobs almost choked her. Madame Georges, Rodolph, and the abbé were all deeply affected.
"Rise, my dear child," said the curé; "you will soon deserve absolution from those serious faults of which you have rather been the victim than the criminal; for, in the words of the prophet, 'The Lord raises up all those who are ready to fall, and elevates those who are oppressed.'"
Murphy, at this moment, opened the door.
"M. Rodolph," he said, "the horses are ready."
"Adieu, father! adieu, Madame Georges! I commend your child to your care,—our child, I should say. Farewell, Marie; I will soon come and see you again."
The venerable pastor, leaning on the arms of Madame Georges and La Goualeuse, who supported his tottering steps, left the room to see Rodolph depart.
The last rays of the sun shed their light on this interesting yet sad group:
An old priest, the symbol of charity, pardon, and everlasting hope; a female, overwhelmed by every grief that can distress a wife and mother; a young girl, hardly out of her infancy, and but recently thrown into an abyss of vice through misery and the close contact with crime.
Rodolph got into the carriage, Murphy took his place by his side, and the horses set off at speed.
The day after he had confided the Goualeuse to the care of Madame Georges, Rodolph, still dressed as a mechanic, was, at noon precisely, at the door of a cabaret with the sign of the Panier-Fleuri, not far from the barrier of Bercy.
The evening before, at ten o'clock, the Chourineur was punctual to the appointment which Rodolph had fixed with him. The result of this narrative will inform our readers of the particulars of the meeting. It was twelve o'clock, and the rain fell in torrents; the Seine, swollen by perpetual falls of rain, had risen very high, and overflowed a part of the quay. Rodolph looked from time to time, with a gesture of impatience, towards the barrier, and at last observed a man and woman, who were coming towards him under the shelter of an umbrella, and whom he recognised as the Chouette and the Schoolmaster.
These two individuals were completely metamorphosed. The ruffian had laid aside his ragged garments and his air of brutal ferocity. He wore a long frock coat of green cloth, and a round hat; whilst his shirt and cravat were remarkable for their whiteness. But for the hideousness of his features and the fierce glance of his eyes, always restless and suspicious, this fellow might have been taken, by his quiet and steady step, for an honest citizen.
The Chouette was also in her Sunday costume, wearing a large shawl of fine wool, with a large pattern, and held in her hand a capacious basket.
The rain having ceased for the moment, Rodolph, overcoming a sensation of disgust, went to meet the frightful pair. For the slang of the tapis-franc the Schoolmaster now substituted a style almost polished, and which betokened a cultivated mind, in strange contrast with his real character and crimes. When Rodolph approached, the brigand made him a polite bow, and the Chouette curtseyed respectfully.
"Sir, your humble servant," said the Schoolmaster. "I am delighted to pay my respects to you—delighted—or, rather, to renew our acquaintance; for the night before last you paid me two blows of the fist which were enough to have felled a rhinoceros. But not a word of that now; it was a joke on your part, I am sure,—merely done in jest. Let us not say another word about it, for serious business brings us now together. I saw the Chourineur yesterday, about eleven o'clock, at the tapis-franc, and appointed to meet him here to-day, in case he chose to join us,—to be our fellow labourer; but it seems that he most decidedly refuses."
"You, then, accept the proposal?"
"Your name, sir, if you be so good?"
"Rodolph."
"M. Rodolph, we will go into the Panier-Fleuri,—neither myself nor madame has breakfasted,—and we will talk over our little matters whilst we are taking a crust."
"Most willingly."
"We can talk as we go on. You and the Chourineur certainly do owe some satisfaction to my wife and myself,—you have caused us to lose more than two thousand francs. Chouette had a meeting near St. Ouen with the tall gentleman in mourning, who came to ask for you at the tapis-franc. He offered us two thousand francs to do something to you. The Chourineur has told me all about this. But, Finette," said the fellow, "go and select a room at the Panier-Fleuri, and order breakfast,—some cutlets, a piece of veal, a salad, and a couple of bottles of vin de beaune, the best quality,—and we will join you there."
The Chouette, who had not taken her eye off Rodolph for a moment, went off after exchanging looks with the Schoolmaster, who then said:
"I say, M. Rodolph, that the Chourineur has edified me on the subject of the two thousand francs."
"What do you mean by edified you?"
"You are right,—the language is a little too refined for you. I would say that the Chourineur nearly told me all that the tall gentleman in mourning, with his two thousand francs, required."
"Good."
"Not so good, young man; for the Chourineur, having yesterday morning met the Chouette, near St. Ouen, did not leave her for one moment, when the tall gentleman in mourning came up, so that he could not approach and converse with her. You, then, ought to put us in the way of regaining our two thousand francs."
"Nothing easier; but let us 'hark back.' I had proposed a glorious job to the Chourineur, which he at first accepted, but afterwards refused to go on with."
"He always had very peculiar ideas."
"But whilst he refused he observed to me—"
"He made you observe—"
"Oh, diable! You are very grand with your grammar."
"It is my profession, as a schoolmaster."
"He made me, then, observe, that if he would not go on this 'lay,' he did not desire to discourage any other person, and that you would willingly lend a hand in the affair."
"May I, without impertinence, ask why you appointed a meeting with the Chourineur at St. Ouen yesterday, which gave him the advantage of meeting the Chouette? He was too much puzzled at my question to give me a clear answer."
Rodolph bit his lips imperceptibly, and replied, shrugging his shoulders:
"Very likely; for I only told him half my plan, you must know, not knowing if he had made up his mind."
"That was very proper."
"The more so as I had two strings to my bow."
"You are a careful man. You met the Chourineur, then, at St. Ouen, for—"
Rodolph, after a moment's hesitation, had the good luck to think of a story which would account for the want of address which the Chourineur had displayed, and said:
"Why, this it is. The attempt I propose is a famous one, because the person in question is in the country; all my fear was that he should return to Paris. To make sure, I went to Pierrefitte, where his country-house is situated, and there I learned that he would not be back again until the day after to-morrow."
"Well, but to return to my question; why did you appoint to meet the Chourineur at St. Ouen?"
"Why, you are not so bright as I took you for. How far is it from Pierrefitte to St. Ouen?"
"About a league."
"And from St. Ouen to Paris?"
"As much."
"Well, if I had not found any one at Pierrefitte,—that is, if there had been an empty house there,—why, there also would have been a good job; not so good as in Paris, but still well worth having. I went back to the Chourineur, who was waiting for me at St. Ouen. We should have returned then to Pierrefitte, by a cross-path which I know, and—"
"I understand. If, on the contrary, the job was to be done in Paris?"
"We should have gained the Barrier de l'Étoile by the road of the Rivolte, and thence to the Allée des Veuves—"
"Is but a step; that is plain enough. At St. Ouen you were well placed for either operation,—that was clear; and now I can understand why the Chourineur was at St. Ouen. So the house in the Allée des Veuves will be uninhabited until the day after to-morrow?"
"Uninhabited, except the porter."
"I see. And is it a profitable job?"
"Sixty thousand francs in gold in the proprietor's cabinet."
"And you know all the ways?"
"Perfectly."
"Silence, here we are; not a word before the vulgar. I do not know if you feel as I do, but the morning air has given me an appetite."
The Chouette was awaiting them at the door.
"This way; this way," she said. "I have ordered our breakfast."
Rodolph wished the brigand to pass in first, for certain reasons; but the Schoolmaster insisted on showing so much politeness, that Rodolph entered before him. Before he sat down, the Schoolmaster tapped lightly against each of the divisions of the wainscot, that he might ascertain their thickness and power of transmitting sounds.
"We need not be afraid to speak out," said he; "the division is not thin. We shall have our breakfast soon, and shall not be disturbed in our conversation."
A waiter brought in the breakfast, and before he shut the door Rodolph saw the charcoal-man, Murphy, seated with great composure at a table in a room close at hand.
The room in which the scene took place that we are describing was long and narrow, lighted by one window, which looked into the street, and was opposite to the door. The Chouette turned her back to this window, whilst the Schoolmaster was at one side of the table, and Rodolph on the other.
When the servant left the room, the brigand got up, took his plate, and seated himself beside Rodolph and between him and the door.
"We can talk better," he said, "and need not talk so loud."
"And then you can prevent me from going out," replied Rodolph, calmly.
The Schoolmaster gave a nod in the affirmative, and then, half drawing out of the pocket of his frock coat a stiletto, round and as thick as a goose's quill, with a handle of wood which disappeared in the grasp of his hairy fingers, said:
"You see that?"
"I do."
"Advice to amateurs!" And bringing his shaggy brows together, by a frown which made his wide and flat forehead closely resemble a tiger's, he made a significant gesture.
"And you may believe me," added the Chouette, "I have made the tool sharp."
Rodolph, with perfect coolness, put his hand under his blouse, and took out a double-barrelled pistol, which he showed to the Schoolmaster, and then put into his pocket.
"All right; and now we understand each other; but do not misunderstand me, I am only alluding to an impossibility. If they try to arrest me, and you have laid any trap for me, I will make 'cold meat' of you."
And he gave a fierce look at Rodolph.
"And I will spring upon him and help you, fourline," cried the Chouette.
Rodolph made no reply, but shrugged his shoulders, and, pouring out a glass of wine, tossed it off. His coolness deceived the Schoolmaster.
"I only put you on your guard."
"Well, then, put up your 'larding-pin' into your pocket; you have no chicken to lard now. I am an old cock, and know my game as well as most," said Rodolph. "But, to our business."
"Yes, let us talk of business; but do not speak against my 'larding-pin;' it makes no noise, and does not disturb anybody."
"And does its work as should be; doesn't it, fourline?" added the old beldam.
"By the way," said Rodolph to the Chouette, "do you really know the Goualeuse's parents?"
"My man has in his pocket two letters about it, but she shall never see them,—the little slut! I would rather tear her eyes out with my own hands. Oh, when I meet her again at the tapis-franc, won't I pay her off—"
"There, that'll do, Finette; we have other things to talk of, and so leave off your gossip."
"May we 'patter' before the 'mot?'" asked Rodolph.
"Most decidedly! She's true as steel, and is worth her weight in gold to watch for us, to get information or impressions of keys, to conceal stolen goods or sell them,—nothing comes amiss to her. She is a first-rate manager. Good Finette!" added the robber, extending his hand to the horrid hag. "You can have no idea of the services she has done me. Take off your shawl, Finette, or you'll be cold when you go out; put it on the chair with your basket."
The Chouette took off her shawl.
In spite of his presence of mind, and the command which he had over himself, Rodolph could not quite conceal his surprise when he saw suspended by a ring of silver, from a thick chain of metal which hung round the old creature's neck, a small Saint Esprit in lapis lazuli, precisely resembling that which the son of Madame Georges had round his neck when he was carried off.
At this discovery, a sudden idea flashed across the mind of Rodolph. According to the Chourineur's statement, the Schoolmaster had escaped from the Bagne six months ago, and had since defied all search after him by disfiguring himself as he had now; and six months ago the husband of Madame Georges had disappeared from the Bagne. Rodolph surmised that, very possibly, the Schoolmaster was the husband of that unhappy lady. If this were so, he knew the fate of the son she lamented,—he possessed, too, some papers relative to the birth of the Goualeuse. Rodolph had, then, fresh motives for persevering in his projects, and, fortunately, his absence of mind was not observed by the Schoolmaster, who was busy helping the Chouette.
"Morbleu! What a pretty chain you have!" said Rodolph to the one-eyed woman.
"Pretty, and not dear," answered the old creature, laughing. "It is only a sham till my man can afford to give me a real one."
"That will depend on this gentleman, Finette. If our job comes off well, why then—"
"It is astonishing how well it is imitated," continued Rodolph. "And what is that little blue thing at the end?"
"It is a present from my man, which I shall wear until he gives me a 'ticker.' Isn't it, fourline?"
Rodolph's suspicions were thus half confirmed, and he waited with anxiety for the reply of the Schoolmaster, who said:
"You must take care of that, notwithstanding the 'ticker,' Finette; it is a talisman, and brings good luck."
"A talisman!" said Rodolph, in a careless tone; "do you believe in talismans? And where the devil did you pick it up? Give me the address of the shop."
"They do not make them now; the shop is shut up. As you see it, that bit of jewelry has a very great antiquity,—three generations. I value it highly, for it is a family loom," added he, with a hideous grin; "and that's why I gave it to Finette, that she might have good fortune in the enterprises in which she so skilfully seconds me. Only see her at work! only see her! If we go into 'business' together, why—But let us now to our affair in hand. You say that in the Allée des Veuves—"
"At No. 17 there is a house inhabited by a rich man, whose name is—"
"I will not be guilty of the indiscretion of asking his name. You say there are sixty thousand francs in gold in a cabinet?"
"Sixty thousand francs in gold!" exclaimed the Chouette.
Rodolph nodded his head in the affirmative.
"And you know this house, and the people in it?" said the Schoolmaster.
"Quite well."
"Is the entry difficult?"
"A wall seven feet high on the side of the Allée des Veuves, a garden, windows down to the ground, and the house has only the ground floor throughout."
"And there is only the porter to guard this treasure?"
"Yes."
"And what, young man, is your proposed plan of proceeding?"
"Simple enough: to climb over the wall, pick the lock of the door, or force open a shutter or lock. What do you think of it?"
"I cannot answer you before I have examined it all myself,—that is, by the aid of my wife; but, if all you tell me is as you say, I think it would be the thing to do it at once this evening."
And the ruffian looked earnestly at Rodolph.
"This evening!—impossible!" replied he.
"Why, since the occupier does not return until the day after to-morrow?"
"Yes, but I—I cannot this evening—"
"Really? Well, and I—I cannot to-morrow."
"Why not?"
"For the reason that prevents you this evening," said the robber, in a tone of mockery.
After a moment's reflection, Rodolph replied:
"Well, then, this evening be it. Where shall we meet?"
"We will not separate," said the Schoolmaster.
"Why not?"
"Why should we?"
"What is the use of separating? The weather has cleared up, and we will go and walk about, and give a look at the Allée des Veuves; you will see how my woman will work. When that is done, we will return and play a hand at piquet, and have a bit of something in a place in the Champs Elysées that I know, near the river; and, as the Allée des Veuves is deserted at an early hour, we will walk that way about ten o'clock."
"I will join you at nine o'clock."
"Do you or do you not wish that we should do this job together?"
"I do wish it."
"Well, then, we do not separate before evening, or else—"
"Or else?"
"I shall think that you are making 'a plant' for me, and that's the reason you wish to part company now."
"If I wished to set the 'traps' after you, what is to prevent my doing so this evening?"
"Why, everything. You did not expect that I should propose the affair to you so soon, and if you do not leave us you cannot put anybody up to it."
"You mistrust me, then?"
"Most extremely. But as what you propose may be quite true and honest, and the half of sixty thousand francs is worth a risk, I am willing to try for it; but this evening, or never; if never, I shall have my suspicions of you confirmed, and one day or other I will take care and let you dine off a dish of my cooking."
"And I will return your compliment, rely on it."
"Oh, this is all stuff and nonsense!" said the Chouette. "I think with fourline, to-night or never."
Rodolph was in a state of extreme anxiety; if he allowed this opportunity to escape of laying hands on the Schoolmaster, he might never again light on him. The ruffian would ever afterwards be on his guard, or if recognised, apprehended, and taken back to the Bagne, would carry with him that secret which Rodolph had so much interest in discovering. Confiding in his address and courage, and trusting to chance, he said to the Schoolmaster:
"Agreed, then; and we will not part company before evening."
"Then I'm your man. It is now two o'clock; it is some distance from here to the Allée des Veuves; it is raining again in torrents; let us pay the reckoning and take a coach."
"If we have a coach, I should like first to smoke a cigar."
"Why not?" said the Schoolmaster. "Finette does not mind the smell of tobacco."
"Well, then, I'll go and fetch some cigars," said Rodolph, rising.
"Pray don't give yourself that trouble," said the Schoolmaster, stopping him; "Finette will go."
Rodolph resumed his seat. The Schoolmaster had penetrated his design. The Chouette went out.
"What a clever manager I have, haven't I?" said the ruffian; "and so tractable, she would throw herself into the fire for me."
"Apropos of fire, it is not overwarm here," replied Rodolph, placing both his hands under his blouse; and then, continuing his conversation with the Schoolmaster, he took out a lead-pencil and a morsel of paper, which he had in his waistcoat pocket, without being detected, and wrote some words hastily, taking care to make his letters wide apart, so that they might be more legible; for he wrote under his blouse, and without seeing what he wrote.
This note escaped the penetration of the Schoolmaster; the next thing was to enable it to reach its address.
Rodolph rose and went listlessly towards the window, and began to hum a tune between his teeth, accompanying himself on the window glasses.
The Schoolmaster came up to the window and said to Rodolph:
"What tune are you playing?"
"I am playing 'Tu n'auras pas ma rose.'"
"And a very pretty tune it is. I should like to know if it would have the effect of making any of the passers-by turn round?"
"I had no such intention."
"You are wrong, young man; for you are playing the tambourine on that pane of glass with all your might. But I was thinking, the porter of this house in the Allée des Veuves is perhaps a stout fellow; if he resists, you have only your pistol, which is a noisy weapon, whilst a tool like this (and he showed Rodolph the handle of his poniard) makes no noise, and does not disturb anybody."
"Do you mean, then, to assassinate him?" exclaimed Rodolph. "If you have any such intention, let us give up the job altogether; I will have no hand in it,—so don't rely on me—"
"But if he wakes?"
"We will take to our heels."
"Well, just as you like; only it is better to come to a clear understanding beforehand. So, then, ours is simply a mere robbery with forcible entry—"
"Nothing more."
"That's very silly and contemptible; but so be it."
"And as I will not leave you for a second," thought Rodolph, "I will prevent you from shedding blood."
The Chouette returned to the room, bringing the cigars with her.
"I don't think it rains now," said Rodolph, lighting his cigar. "Suppose we go and fetch the coach ourselves,—it will stretch our legs."
"What! not rain!" replied the Schoolmaster; "are you blind? Do you think I will expose Finette to the chance of catching cold, and exposing her precious life, and spoiling her new shawl?"
"You are right, old fellow; it rains cats and dogs. Let the servant come and we can pay him, and desire him to fetch us a coach," replied Rodolph.
"That's the most sensible thing you have said yet, young fellow; we may go and look about as we seek the Allée des Veuves."
The servant entered, and Rodolph gave her five francs.
"Ah, sir, it is really an imposition,—I cannot allow it," exclaimed the Schoolmaster.
"Oh, all right; your turn next time."
"Be it so, but on condition that I shall offer you something, by and by, in a little cabaret in the Champs Elysées,—a capital little snuggery that I know of."
"Just as you like."
The servant paid, and they left the room.
Rodolph wished to go last, out of politeness to the Chouette, but the Schoolmaster would not allow it, and followed close on his heels, watching his every movement.
The master of the house kept a wine-shop also, and amongst other drinkers, a charcoal-man, with his face blackened and his large hat flapping over his eyes, was paying his "shot" at the bar when these three personages appeared. In spite of the close lookout of the Schoolmaster and the one-eyed hag, Rodolph, who walked before the hideous pair, exchanged a rapid and unperceived glance with Murphy as he got into the hackney-coach.
"Which way am I to go, master?" asked the driver.
Rodolph replied, in a loud voice:
"Allée des—"
"Des Acacias, in the Bois de Boulogne," cried the Schoolmaster, interrupting him. Then he added, "And we will pay you well, coachman."
The door was shut.
"What the devil made you bawl out which way we were going before these people?" said the Schoolmaster. "If the thing were found out to-morrow, we might be traced and discovered. Young man,—young man, you are very imprudent!"
The coach was already in motion. Rodolph answered:
"True; I did not think of that. But with my cigar I shall smoke you like herrings; let us have a window open."
And, joining the action to the words, Rodolph, with much dexterity, let fall outside the window the morsel of paper, folded very small, on which he had hastily written a few words in pencil under his blouse. The Schoolmaster's glance was so quick, that, in spite of the calmness of Rodolph's features, the ruffian detected some expression of triumph, for, putting his head out of the window, he called out to the driver:
"Whip behind! whip behind! there is some one getting up at the back of the coach!"
The coach stopped, and the driver, standing on his seat, looked back, and said:
"No, master, there is no one there."
"Parbleu! I will look myself," replied the Schoolmaster, jumping out into the street.
Not seeing any person or anything (for since Rodolph had dropped the paper the coach had gone on several yards), the Schoolmaster thought he was mistaken.
"You will laugh at me," he said, as he resumed his seat, "but I don't know why I thought some one was following us."
The coach at this moment turned round a corner, and Murphy, who had not lost sight of it with his eyes, and had seen Rodolph's manœuvre, ran and picked up the little note, which had fallen into a crevice between two of the paving-stones.
At the end of a quarter of an hour the Schoolmaster said to the driver of the hackney-coach:
"My man, we have changed our minds; drive to the Place de la Madelaine."
Rodolph looked at him with astonishment.
"All right, young man; from hence we may go to a thousand different places. If they seek to track us hereafter, the deposition of the coachman will not be of the slightest service to them."
At the moment when the coach was approaching the barrier, a tall man, clothed in a long white riding-coat, with his hat drawn over his eyes, and whose complexion appeared of a deep brown, passed rapidly along the road, stooping over the neck of a high, splendid hunter, which trotted with extraordinary speed.
"A good horse and a good rider," said Rodolph, leaning forward to the door of the coach and following Murphy (for it was he) with his eyes. "What a pace that stout man goes! Did you see him?"
"Ma foi! he passed so very quickly," said the Schoolmaster, "that I did not remark him."
Rodolph calmly concealed his satisfaction; Murphy had, doubtless, deciphered the almost hieroglyphic characters of the note which he had dropped, and which had escaped the vigilance of the Schoolmaster. Certain that the coach was not followed, he had become more assured, and desirous of imitating the Chouette, who slept, or rather pretended to sleep, he said to Rodolph:
"Excuse me, young man, but the motion of the coach always produces a singular effect on me,—it sends me off to sleep like a child."
The ruffian, under the guise of assumed sleep, thought to examine whether the physiognomy of his companion betrayed any emotion; but Rodolph was on his guard, and replied:
"I rose so early that I feel sleepy, and will have a nap, too."
He shut his eyes, and very soon the hard breathing of the Schoolmaster and the Chouette, who snored in chorus, so completely deceived Rodolph, that, thinking his companions sound asleep, he half opened his eyes. The Schoolmaster and the Chouette, in spite of their loud snoring, had their eyes open, and were exchanging some mysterious signs by means of their fingers curiously placed or bent in the palms of their hands. In an instant this mute language ceased. The brigand no doubt perceived, by some almost imperceptible sign, that Rodolph was not asleep, and said, in a laughing tone:
"Ah, ah, comrade! what, you were trying your friends, were you?"
"That can't astonish you, who sleep with your eyes open."
"I, who—That's different, young man; I am a somnambulist."
The hackney-coach stopped in the Place de la Madelaine. The rain had ceased for a moment, but the clouds, driven by the violence of the wind, were so dark and so low, that it was almost night in appearance. Rodolph, the Chouette, and the Schoolmaster went towards the Cours la Reine.
"Young man, I have an idea, which is not a bad one," said the robber.
"What is it?"
"To ascertain if all that you have told us respecting the interior of the house in the Allée des Veuves is true."
"You surely will not go there now, under any circumstances? It would awaken suspicion."
"I am not such a flat as that, young fellow; but why have I a wife whose name is Finette?"
The Chouette drew up her head.
"Do you see her, young man? Why, she looks like a war-horse when he hears the blast of the trumpet!"
"You mean to send her as a lookout?"
"Precisely so."
"No. 17, Allée des Veuves, isn't it, my man?" cried the Chouette, impatiently. "Make yourself easy: I have but one eye, but that is a good one."
"Do you see, young man,—do you see she is all impatience to be at work?"
"If she manages cleverly to get into the house, I do not think your idea a bad one."
"Take the umbrella, fourline; in half an hour I will be here again, and you shall see what I will do," said the Chouette.
"One moment, Finette; we are going down to the Bleeding Heart,—only two steps from here. If the little Tortillard (cripple) is there, you had better take him with you; he will remain outside on the watch whilst you go inside the house."
"You are right,—little Tortillard is as cunning as a fox; he is not ten years of age, and yet it was he who the other day—"
A signal from the Schoolmaster interrupted the Chouette.
"What does the 'Bleeding Heart' mean? It is an odd sign for a cabaret," asked Rodolph.
"You must complain to the landlord."
"What is his name?"
"The landlord of the Bleeding Heart?"
"Yes."
"What is that to you? He never asks the names of his customers."
"But, still—"
"Call him what you like,—Peter, Thomas, Christopher, or Barnabas,—he will answer to any and all. But here we are, and it's time we were, for the rain is coming down again in floods; and how the river roars! It has almost become a torrent! Why, look at it! Two more days of such rain, and the water will overflow the arches of the bridge."
"You say that we are there, but where the devil is the cabaret? I do not see any house here."
"Certainly not, if you look round about you."
"Where should I look, then?"
"At your feet."
"At my feet?"
"Yes."
"And whereabouts?"
"Here,—look; do you see the roof? Mind, and don't step upon it."
Rodolph had not remarked one of those subterraneans which used to be seen, some years since, in certain spots in the Champs Elysées, and particularly near the Cours la Reine.
A flight of steps, cut out of the damp and greasy ground, led to the bottom of this sort of deep ditch, against one end of which, cut perpendicularly, leaned a low, mean, dilapidated hovel; its roof, covered with moss-covered tiles, was scarcely so high as the ground on which Rodolph was standing; two or three out-buildings, constructed of worm-eaten planks, serving as cellar, wood-house, and rabbit-hutches, surrounded this wretched den.
A narrow path, which extended along this ditch, led from the stairs to the door of the hut; the rest of the ground was concealed under a mass of trellis-work, which sheltered two rows of clumsy tables, fastened to the ground. A worn-out iron sign swung heavily backwards and forwards on its creaking hinges, and through the rust that covered it might still be seen a red heart pierced with an arrow. The sign was supported by a post erected above this cave,—this real human burrow.
A thick and moist fog was added to the rain as night approached.
"What think you of this hôtel, young fellow?" inquired the Schoolmaster.
"Why, thanks to the torrents that have fallen for the last fortnight, it must be deliciously fresh. But come on."
"One moment,—I wish to know if the landlord is in. Hark!"
The ruffian then, thrusting his tongue forcibly against his palate, produced a singular noise,—a sort of guttural sound, loud and lengthened, something like P-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!!! A similar note came from the depths of the hovel.
"He's there," said the Schoolmaster. "Pardon me, young man,—respect to the ladies,—allow the Chouette to pass first; I follow you. Mind how you come,—it's slippery."
The landlord of the Bleeding Heart, after having responded to the signal of the Schoolmaster, advanced politely to the threshold of his door.
This personage, whom Rodolph had been to see in the Cité, and whom he did not yet know under his true name, or, rather, his habitual surname, was Bras Rouge.
Lank, mean-looking, and feeble, this man might be fifty years of age. His countenance resembled both the weasel and the rat; his peaked nose, his receding chin, his high cheek-bones, his small eyes, black, restless, and keen, gave his features an indescribable expression of malice, cunning, and sagacity. An old brown wig, or, rather, as yellow as his bilious complexion, perched on the top of his head, showed the nape of the old fellow's withered neck. He had on a round jacket, and one of those long black aprons worn by the waiters at the wine shops.
Our three acquaintances had hardly descended the last step of the staircase when a child of about ten years of age, rickety, lame, and somewhat misshapen, came to rejoin Bras Rouge, whom he resembled in so striking a manner that there was no mistaking them for father and son. There was the same quick and cunning look, joined to that impudent, hardened, and knavish air, which is peculiar to the scamp (voyou) of Paris,—that fearful type of precocious depravity, that real 'hemp-seed' (graine de bagne), as they style it, in the horrible slang of the gaol. The forehead of the brat was half lost beneath a thatch of yellowish locks, as harsh and stiff as horse-hair. Reddish-coloured trousers and a gray blouse, confined by a leather girdle, completed Tortillard's costume, whose nickname was derived from his infirmity. He stood close to his father, standing on his sound leg like a heron by the side of a marsh.
"Ah, here is the darling one (môme)!" said the Schoolmaster. "Finette, night is coming on, and time is pressing; we must profit by the daylight which is left to us."
"You are right, my man; I will ask the father to spare his darling."
"Good day, old friend," said Bras Rouge, addressing the Schoolmaster, in a voice which was cracked, sharp, and shrill. "What can I do for you?"
"Why, if you could spare your 'small boy' to my mistress for a quarter of an hour, she has lost something which he could help her to look for."
Bras Rouge winked his eye and made a sign to the Schoolmaster, and then said to the child:
"Tortillard, go with madame."
The hideous brat hopped forward and took hold of the "one-eyed's" hand.
"Love of a bright boy, come along! There is a child!" said Finette. "And how like his father! He is not like Pegriotte, who always pretended to have a pain in her side when she came near me,—a little baggage!"
"Come, come away!—be off, Finette! Keep your weather-eye open, and bright lookout. I await you here."
"I won't be long. Go first, Tortillard."
The one-eyed hag and the little cripple went up the slippery steps.
"Finette, take the umbrella," the brigand called out.