"Now I dare say you expect to be told the high-sounding titles of some great, grand personages. But, bless you! no such thing; no more parade about their names than those of the saints themselves. 'Our Lady of Help' is called Madame Georges, and our good master plain M. Rodolph."
"Merciful powers! My wife! my judge! my executioner!" faintly exclaimed the robber, struck almost speechless at this unexpected revelation. "Rodolph!—Madame Georges!"
It was wholly impossible for the Schoolmaster to entertain a doubt respecting the identity of the persons to whom those names belonged. Previously to adjudging him his fearful punishment, Rodolph had spoken of the lively interest he took in all that concerned Madame Georges. The recent visit of the negro David to this farm was another conclusive proof of there being no mistake in the matter. It seemed as though the very hand of Providence had brought about this singular rencontre, overthrowing as it so completely did his recently cherished hopes of emancipation from his present misery, through the intervention of the generosity of the proprietor of this farm. To fly was his first impulse. The very name of Rodolph inspired him with the most intense terror. Possibly he was even now in the house. Scarcely recovered from his first alarm, the brigand rose from the table, and, grasping the hand of Tortillard, exclaimed, in a wild and terrified manner:
"Let us be gone!—quick!—lead me hence. Let us go, I say."
The whole of the servants looked on with astonishment.
"Go!" said Father Châtelain, with much surprise. "Why? Wherefore should you go? What are you thinking about, my friend? Come, what fresh whim is this? Are you quite in your right senses?"
Tortillard cleverly availed himself of this last suggestion, and, uttering a deep sigh, touched his forehead significantly with his forefinger, so as to convey to the minds of the wondering labourers the impression that his pretended parent was not quite right in his head. The signal elicited a corresponding gesture of pity and due comprehension.
"Come, I say, come!" persisted the Schoolmaster, endeavouring to draw the boy along with him; but, fully determined not to quit such comfortable quarters to wander about in the fields all night during the frost and snow, Tortillard began in a whimpering voice to say:
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! poor father has got one of his old fits come on again. There, there, father, sit down and keep yourself quiet. Pray do, and don't think of wandering out in the cold—it would kill you, maybe. No, not if you are ever so angry with me, will I be so wicked as to lead you out in such weather." Then, addressing himself to the labourers, he said, "Will none of you good gentlemen help me to keep my poor dear father from risking his life by going out to-night?"
"Yes, yes, my boy," answered Father Châtelain; "make yourself perfectly easy. We will not allow your father to quit the place. He shall stay here to-night, in spite of himself."
"Surely you will not keep me here against my will?" inquired the wretched Schoolmaster, in hurried accents; "and perhaps, too, I should offend your master by my presence—that Monsieur Rodolph. You told me the farm was not an hospital; once more, therefore, I ask you to let me go forth in peace on my way."
"Offend our master!—that you would not, I am quite sure. But make yourself easy on that score. I am sorry to say that he does not live here, neither do we see him half as frequently as we could wish. But, if even he had been here, your presence would have made no sort of difference to him."
"No, no," persisted the blind man with continued alarm; "I have changed my mind about applying to him. My son is right. No doubt my relation at Louvres will take care of me. I will go there at once."
"All I have got to say," replied Father Châtelain, kindly conceiving that he was speaking to a man whose brain was unhappily affected, "is just this—that to attempt to proceed on your journey with this poor child to-night is wholly out of the question. Come, let me put matters to rights for you, and say no more about it."
Although now being reassured of Rodolph's not being at Bouqueval, the terrors of the Schoolmaster were by no means dissipated; and, spite of his frightfully disfigured countenance, he was in momentary dread of being recognized by his wife, who might at any moment enter the kitchen, when he was perfectly persuaded she would instantly denounce and give him into custody; his firm impression having been, from the hour of receiving his horrible punishment from the hands of Rodolph, that it was done to satisfy the hatred and vengeance of Madame Georges. But, unable to quit the farm, the ruffian found himself wholly at the mercy of Tortillard. Resigning himself, therefore, to what was unavoidable, yet anxious to escape from the eyes of his wife, he said to the venerable labourer:
"Since you kindly assure me my being here will in no way displease either your master or mistress, I will gladly accept your hospitality; but, as I am much fatigued, and must set out again at break of day, I would humbly ask permission to go at once to my bed."
"Oh, yes, to-morrow morning by all means, and as soon as you like; we are very early people here. And, for fear even that you should again wander from the right road, some one shall conduct you part of the way."
"If you have no objection," said Jean René, addressing Father Châtelain, "I will see the poor man a good step on the road; because Madame Georges said yesterday I was to take the chaise and go to the lawyer's at Villiers le Bel to fetch a large sum of money she requires of him."
"Go with the poor blind traveller by all means," replied Father Châtelain; "but you must walk, mind. Madame has changed her mind about sending to Villiers del Bel, and, wisely reflecting that it was not worth while to have so large a sum of money lying useless at the farm, has determined to let it remain with the lawyer till Monday next, which will be the day she requires it."
"Of course, Father Châtelain; mistress knows best. But please to tell me why she should consider it unsafe to have money at the farm. What is she afraid of?"
"Of nothing, my lad. Thank God, there is no occasion for fear. But, for all that, I would much rather have five hundred sacks of corn on the premises than ten bags of crowns. Come," said old Châtelain, addressing himself to the brigand and Tortillard, "come, follow me, friend; and you too, my lad." Then, taking up a small lamp, he conducted his two guests to a chamber on the ground floor, first traversing a large passage into which several doors opened. Placing the light on a table, the old labourer said to the Schoolmaster, "Here is your lodging, and may God grant you a good and peaceful night's repose, my good friend. As for you, my little man, you are sure to sleep sound and well; it belongs to your happy age to do so."
The Schoolmaster, pensive and meditative, sat down by the side of the bed to which Tortillard conducted him. At the instant when Father Châtelain was quitting the room, Tortillard made him a sign indicative of his desire to speak with him alone, and hastily rejoined him in the passage.
"What is it, my boy, you have to say to me?" inquired the old man, kindly.
"Ah, my kind sir, I only wanted to say that my father is frequently seized during the night with most violent convulsion-fits, which require a much stronger person than I am to hold him; should I be obliged to call for help, is there any person near who could hear me?"
"Poor child!" said the labourer, sympathisingly; "make yourself easy. There,—do you see that door beside the staircase?"
"Oh, yes, good, kind gentleman; I see it."
"Well, one of the farm labourers sleeps in that room. You will only just have to run to him. He never locks his door; and he will come to your father in an instant."
"Thank you, sir; God bless you! I will remember all your kindness when I say my prayers. But suppose, sir, the man and myself were not strong enough together to manage my poor father when these violent convulsions come on, could you, who look so good, and speak so kind—could you be kind enough to come and tell us what to do?"
"Me, my boy? Oh, I sleep, as well as all the other men servants, out of the house, in a large outbuilding in the courtyard. But make yourself quite comfortable. Jean René could manage a mad bull, he is so powerful. Besides, if you really wished any further help he would go and call up our old cook; she sleeps on the first floor, even with our mistress and young mademoiselle, and I can promise you that our old woman is a most excellent sick-nurse should your father require any one to attend to him when the fit is over."
"Thank you, kind gentleman, a thousand times. Good-night, sir. I will go now and pray of God to bless you for your kindness and pity to the poor blind."
"Good night, my lad! Let us hope both you and your father will enjoy a sound night's rest, and have no occasion to require any person's help. You had better return to your room now; your poor father may be wanting you."
"I will, sir. Good night, and thank you!"
"God preserve you both, my child!" And the old man returned to the kitchen.
Scarcely had he turned his back than the limping rascal made one of those supremely insulting and derisive gestures familiar to all the blackguards of Paris, consisting in slapping the nape of the neck repeatedly with the left hand, darting the right hand quite open continually out in a straight line. With the most consummate audacity, this dangerous child had just gleaned, under the mask of guileless tenderness and apprehension for his father, information most important for the furtherance of the schemes of the Chouette and Schoolmaster. He had ascertained during the last few minutes that the part of the building where he slept was only occupied by Madame Georges, Fleur-de-Marie, an old female servant, and one of the farm-labourers. Upon his return to the room he was to share with the blind man, Tortillard carefully avoided approaching him. The former, however, heard his step, and growled out:
"Where have you been, you vagabond?"
"What! you want to know, do you, old blind 'un?"
"Oh, I'll make you pay for all you have made me suffer this evening, you wretched urchin!" exclaimed the Schoolmaster, rising furiously, and groping about in every direction after Tortillard, feeling by the walls as a guide. "I'll strangle you when I catch you, you young fiend—you infernal viper!"
"Poor, dear father! How prettily he plays at blind-man's buff with his own little boy," said Tortillard, grinning, and enjoying the ease with which he escaped from the impotent attempts of the Schoolmaster to seize him, who, though impelled to the exertion by his overboiling rage, was soon compelled to cease, and, as had been the case before, to give up all hopes of inflicting the revenge he yearned to bestow on the impish son of Bras Rouge.
Thus compelled to submit to the impudent persecution of his juvenile tormentor, and await the propitious hour when all his injuries could safely be avenged, the brigand determined to reserve his powerless wrath for a fitting opportunity of paying off old scores, and, worn out in body by his futile violence, threw himself, swearing and cursing, on the bed.
"Dear father!—sweet father!—have you got the toothache that you swear so? Ah, if Monsieur le Curé heard you, what would he say to you? He would give you such penance! Oh, my!"
"That's right!—go on!" replied the ruffian, in a hollow and suppressed voice, after long enduring this entertaining vivacity on the part of the young gentleman. "Laugh at me!—mock me!—make sport of my calamity, cowardly scoundrel that you are! That is a fine, noble action, is it not? Just worthy of such a mean, ignoble, contemptible soul as dwells within that wretched, crooked body!"
"Oh, how fine we talk! How nice we preach about being generous, and all that, don't we?" cried Tortillard, bursting into peals of laughter. "I beg your pardon, dear father, but I can't possibly help thinking it so funny to hear you, whose fingers were regular fish-hooks, picking and stealing whatever came in their way; and, as for generosity, I beg you don't mention it, because, till you got your eyes poked out I don't suppose you ever thought of such a word!"
"But, at least, I never did you any harm. Why, then, torment me thus?"
"Because, in the first place, you said what I did not like to the Chouette; then you had a fancy for stopping and playing the fool among the clodhoppers here. Perhaps you mean to commence a course of asses' milk?"
"You impudent young beggar! If I had only had the opportunity of remaining at this farm—which I now wish sunk in the bottomless pit, or blasted with eternal lightning—you should not have played your tricks of devilish cruelty with me any longer!"
"You to remain here! that would be a farce! Who, then, would Madame la Chouette have for her bête de souffrance? Me, perhaps, thank ye!—don't you wish you may get it?"
"Miserable abortion!"
"Abortion! ah, yes, another reason why I say, as well as Aunt Chouette, there is nothing so funny as to see you in one of your unaccountable passions—you, who could kill me with one blow of your fist; it's more funny than if you were a poor, weak creature. How very funny you were at supper to-night! Dieu de Dieu! what a lark I had all to myself! Why, it was better than a play at the Gaîté. At every kick I gave you on the sly, your passion made all the blood fly in your face, and your white eyes became red all round; they only wanted a bit of blue in the middle to have been real tri-coloured. They would have made two fine cockades for the town-sergeant, wouldn't they?"
"Come, come, you like to laugh—you are merry: bah! it's natural at your age—it's natural—I'm not angry with you," said the Schoolmaster, in an air of affected carelessness, hoping to propitiate Tortillard; "but, instead of standing there, saying saucy things, it would be much better for you to remember what the Chouette told you; you say you are very fond of her. You should examine all over the place, and get the print of the locks. Didn't you hear them say they expected to have a large sum of money here on Monday? We will be amongst them then, and have our share. I should have been foolish to have stayed here; I should have had enough of these asses of country people at the end of a week, shouldn't I, boy?" asked the ruffian, to flatter Tortillard.
"If you had stayed here I should have been very much annoyed, 'pon my word and honour," replied Bras Rouge's son, in a mocking tone.
"Yes, yes, there's a good business to be done in this house; and, if there should be nothing to steal, yet I will return here with the Chouette, if only to have my revenge," said the miscreant, in a tone full of fury and malice, "for now I am sure it is my wife who excited that infernal Rodolph against me; he who, in blinding me, has put me at the mercy of all the world, of the Chouette, and a young blackguard like yourself. Well, if I cannot avenge myself on him, I will have vengeance against my wife,—yes, she shall pay me for all, even if I set fire to this accursed house and bury myself in its smouldering ruins. Yes, I will—I will have—"
"You will, you want to get hold of your wife, eh, old gentleman? She is within ten paces of you! that's vexing, ain't it? If I liked, I could lead you to the door of her room, that's what I could, for I know the room. I know it—I know it—I know it," added Tortillard, singing according to his custom.
"You know her room?" said the Schoolmaster, in an agony of fervent joy; "you know it?"
"I see you coming," said Tortillard; "come, play the pretty, and get on your hind legs like a dog when they throw him a dainty bone. Now, old Cupid!"
"You know my wife's chamber?" said the miscreant, turning to the side whence the sound of Tortillard's voice proceeded.
"Yes, I know it; and, what's still better, only one of the farm servants sleeps on the side of the house where we are. I know his door—the key is in it—click, one turn, and he's all safe and fast. Come, get up, old blind Cupid!"
"Who told you all this?" asked the blind scoundrel, rising involuntarily.
"Capital, Cupid! By the side of your wife's room sleeps an old cook—one more turn of the key, and click! we are masters of the house—masters of your wife, and the young girl with the gray mantle that you must catch hold of and carry off. Now, then, your paw, old Cupid; do the pretty to your master directly."
"You lie! you lie! how could you know all this?"
"Why, I'm lame in my leg, but not in my head. Before we left the kitchen I said to the old guzzling labourer that sometimes in the night you had convulsions, and I asked him where I could get assistance if you were attacked. He said if you were attacked I might call up the man servant and the cook; and he showed me where they slept; one down, the other up stairs in the first floor, close to your wife—your wife—your wife!"
And Tortillard repeated his monotonous song. After a lengthened silence the Schoolmaster said to him, in a calm voice, but with an air of desperate determination:
"Listen, boy. I have stayed long enough. Lately—yes, yes, I confess it—I had a hope which now makes my lot appear still more frightful; the prison, the bagne, the guillotine, are nothing—nothing to what I have endured since this morning; and I shall have the same to endure always. Lead me to my wife's room; I have my knife here; I will kill her. I shall be killed afterwards; but what of that? My hatred swells till it chokes me; I shall have revenge, and that will console me. What I now suffer is too much—too much! for me, too, before whom everybody trembled. Now, lad, if you knew what I endure, even you would pity me. Even now my brain appears ready to burst; my pulse beats as if my veins would burst; my head whirls—"
"A cold in your 'knowledge-box,' old chap—that's it; sneeze—that'll cure you," said Tortillard, with a loud grin; "what say you to a pinch of snuff, old brick?"
And striking loudly on the back of his left hand, which was clenched, as if he were tapping on the lid of a snuff-box, he sang:
"Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! they will drive me mad!" cried the brigand, becoming really almost demented by a sort of nervous excitement arising from bloodthirsty revenge and implacable hatred, which in vain sought to satiate itself. The exuberant strength of this monster could only be equalled by the impossibility of satisfying his deadly desires. Let us imagine a hungry, furious, maddened wolf, teased during a whole day by a child through the bars of his den, and scenting within two paces of him a victim who would at once satisfy his hunger and his rage. At the last taunt of Tortillard the brigand almost lost his senses; unable to reach his victim, he desired in his frenzy to shed his own blood, for his blood was stifling him. One moment he resolved to kill himself, and, had he had a loaded pistol in his hand, he would not have hesitated; he fumbled in his pocket, and drew out a clasp-knife, opened it, and raised it to strike; but, quick as were his movements, reflection, fear, and vital instinct were still more rapid,—the murderer lacked courage,—his arm fell on his knees. Tortillard had watched all his actions with an attentive eye, and, when he saw the finale of this pseudo-tragedy, he continued, mockingly,—
"How, boys, a duel? Ah, pluck the chickens!"
The Schoolmaster, fearing that he should lose his senses if he gave way to an ineffectual burst of fury, turned a deaf ear to this fresh insult of Tortillard, who so impertinently commented on the cowardice of an assassin who recoiled from suicide. Despairing of escape from what he termed, by a sort of avenging fatality, the cruelty of his cursed child, the ruffian sought to try what could be done by assailing the avarice of the son of Bras Rouge.
"Ah," said he to him, in a tone almost supplicatory, "lead me to the door of my wife's room, and take anything you like that's in her room and run away with it! leave me to myself. You may cry out 'murder' if you like; they will apprehend me—kill me on the spot—I care not, I shall die avenged, if I have not the courage to end my existence myself. Oh, lead me there—lead me there; depend on it she has gold, jewels, anything, and you may take all, all for yourself, for your own, do you mind?—your own; only lead me to the door where she is."
"Yes, I mind well enough; you want me to lead you to her door, then to her bed, and then to tell you when to strike, then to guide your hand—eh! that's it, ain't it? You want to make me a handle to your knife, old monster!" replied Tortillard, with an expression of contempt, anger, and horror, which, for the first time in his life gave an appearance of seriousness to his weasel face, usually all impertinence and insolence; "I'll be killed first, I tell you, sooner than I'll lead you to where your wife is!"
"You refuse?"
The son of Bras Rouge made no reply. He approached with bare feet and without being heard by the Schoolmaster, who, seated on the bed, still held his large knife in his hand, and then, in a moment, with marvellous quickness and dexterity, Tortillard snatched from him his weapon, and with one jump skipped to the further end of the chamber.
"My knife! my knife!" cried the brigand, extending his arms.
"No; for then you might to-morrow morning ask to speak with your wife and try to kill her, since, as you say, you have had enough of life, and are such a coward that you don't dare kill yourself."
"How he defends my wife against me!" said the bandit, whose intellect became obscure. "This little wretch is a devil! Where am I? Why does he try to save her?"
"Because I like it," said Tortillard, whose face resumed its usual appearance of sly impudence.
"Ah, is that it?" murmured the Schoolmaster, whose mind was wandering; "well, then, I'll fire the house! we'll all burn—all! I prefer that furnace to the other. The candle! the candle!"
"Ah! ah! ah!" exclaimed Tortillard, bursting out again into loud laughter. "If your own candle—your 'peepers'—had not been snuffed out, and for ever, you would have known that ours had been extinguished an hour ago." And Tortillard sang:
The Schoolmaster gave a deep groan, stretched out his arms, and fell heavily on the floor, his face on the ground, and, struck by a rush of blood, remained motionless.
"Not to be caught, old boy," said Tortillard; "that's only a trick to make me come to you that you may serve me out! When you have been long enough on the floor you'll get up."
Bras Rouge's boy resolved not to go to sleep for fear of being surprised by the Schoolmaster, so seated himself in a chair, with his eyes fixed on the ruffian, persuaded that it was a trap laid for him, and not believing the Schoolmaster in any danger. That he might employ himself agreeably Tortillard drew silently and carefully from his pocket a little red silk purse, and counted slowly, and with looks of joy and avarice, the seventeen pieces of gold which it contained. Tortillard had acquired his ill-gotten riches thus: It may be remembered that Madame d'Harville was nearly surprised by her husband at the rendezvous which she had granted to the commandant. Rodolph, when he had given the purse to the young lady had told her to go up to the fifth story to the Morels, under the pretence of bringing them assistance. Madame d'Harville ran quickly up the staircase holding the purse in her hands. When Tortillard, who was coming from the quack's, caught a glimpse of the purse, and, pretending to stumble as he passed the marquise, pushed against her, and, in the shock, slily stole the purse. Madame d'Harville, bewildered, and hearing her husband's footsteps, hurried on to the fifth story without thinking or complaining of the impudent robbery of the little cripple. After having counted and recounted his gold Tortillard cast his eyes towards the Schoolmaster who was extended still on the ground. Disquieted for a moment, he listened, and hearing the robber breathe freely he thought that he was still meditating some trick against him.
Chance saved the Schoolmaster from a congestion of the brain which else must have proved mortal. His fall had caused a salutary and abundant bleeding at the nose. He then fell into kind of a feverish torpor—half sleep, half delirium, and then had this wild, this fearful dream!
This was the Schoolmaster's dream:
He was again in Rodolph's house in the Allée des Veuves. The saloon in which the miscreant had received his appalling punishment had not undergone any alteration. Rodolph himself was sitting at the table on which were the Schoolmaster's papers and the little Saint-Esprit of lapis which he had given to the Chouette. Rodolph's countenance was grave and sad. On his right the negro David was standing motionless and silent; on his left was the Chourineur, who looked on with a bewildered mien. In his dream the Schoolmaster was no longer blind, but saw through a medium of clear blood, which filled the cavities of his eyeballs. All and everything seemed to him tinted with red. As birds of prey hover on motionless wing above the head of the victim which they fascinate before they devour, so a monstrous screech-owl (chouette), having for its head the hideous visage of the one-eyed hag, soared over the Schoolmaster, keeping fixed on him her round, glaring, and green eye. This fixed stare was upon his breast like a heavy weight. The Schoolmaster discerned a vast lake of blood separating him from the table at which Rodolph was seated. Then this inflexible judge, as well as the Chourineur and the negro, grew and grew, expanding into colossal proportions, until they touched the ceiling; and then it also became higher in proportion. The lake of blood was calm, and as unruffled as a red mirror; the Schoolmaster saw his hideous countenance reflected therein. Then that was suddenly effaced by the tumult of the swelling waves. From their troubled surface there arose a vapour resembling the foul exhalation of a marsh, a livid-coloured mist of that violet hue peculiar to the lips of the dead. In proportion as this miasma rises—rises, the faces of Rodolph, the Chourineur, and the negro continue to expand and expand in an extraordinary manner, and always remain above this fearful cloud. In the midst of the awful vapour, the Schoolmaster sees the pale ghosts, and those murderous scenes in which he had been the actor. In this fantastic mirage he first sees a little bald-headed old man, clad in a long brown coat, and wearing an eye-shade of green silk. He is employing himself in a dilapidated chamber in counting and arranging pieces of gold into piles by the light of a lamp. Through the window, lighted by the dim moonlight reflected on the tops of some high trees waving in the wind, the Schoolmaster recognises his own figure. Pressing his distorted features against the glass, following every motion of the old man with glaring eyes, then breaking a pane, he opens the window itself, leaps with a bound upon his victim, and stabs him between the shoulders with his long and keen knife. The movement is so rapid, the blow so quick and sure, that the dead body of the old man remains seated in the chair.
The murderer tries to withdraw his weapon from the dead body,—he cannot! He redoubles his efforts,—in vain! He then seeks to quit the deadly steel,—impossible!
The hand of the assassin clings to the handle of the poignard, as the blade of the poignard clings to the frame of the wounded man. The murderer then hears the sound of clinking spurs and clashing swords in the adjoining room. He must escape at all risks, and attempts to carry with him the body of the feeble old man, from which he cannot withdraw either his weapon or his hand.
He cannot do even this. The light and feeble carcass weighs him down like a mass of lead. Despite his herculean shoulders, his desperate efforts, the Schoolmaster cannot even stir this overwhelming weight.
The sound of echoing steps and jingling sabres comes nearer and nearer. The key turns in the lock,—the door opens. The vision disappears.
And then the screech-owl flaps her wing, and shrieks out:
"It is the old miser of the Rue de la Roule. Your maiden murder! murder! murder!"
A moment's darkness,—then the miasma which covers the lake of blood resumes its transparency, and another spectre is revealed.
The day begins to dawn,—the fog is thick and heavy. A man, clothed like a cattle-dealer, lies stretched, dead on the bank of the highroad. The trampled earth, the torn turf, proved that the victim had made a desperate resistance. The man has five bleeding wounds in his breast. He is lifeless; yet still he seems to whistle on his dogs, calling to them, "Help! help!"
But his whistling, his cries, proceed from five large and gaping wounds,—
which move like so many complaining lips. The five calls, the five whistlings, all made and heard at once, come from the dead man by the mouths of his gushing wounds; and fearful are they to hear!
At this instant the Chouette waves her wings, and mocks the deathly groans of the victim with five bursts of laughter,—a laughter as unearthly and as horrible as the madman's mirth; and then again she shrieks:
"The cattle-dealer of Poissy. Murder! murder! murder!"
Protracted and underground echoes first repeat aloud the malevolent laughter of the screech-owl. Then they seem to die away in the very bowels of the earth.
At this sound two large dogs, as black as midnight, with eyes glaring like burning coals, begin to run rapidly around—around—around the Schoolmaster, baying furiously. They almost touch him, and yet their bark appears as distant as if carried on the wind of the morning.
Gradually these spectres fade away as the previous one did, and are lost in the pale vapour which is continually ascending.
A new exhalation now arises from the lake of blood, and spreads itself on its surface. It is a sort of greenish, transparent mist; it resembles the vertical section of a canal filled with water. At first he sees the bed of the canal covered in by a thick vase formed of numberless reptiles usually imperceptible to the unassisted eye, but which, enlarged, as if viewed through a microscope, assume monstrous forms, vast proportions relatively to their actual size. It is no longer mud, but a compact, living, crawling mass,—an inextricable conglomeration which wriggles and curls; so close, so dense, that a sullen and low undulation hardly stirs the level of this vase, or rather bed of foulest animalculæ. Above trickles gently—gently, a turbid stream, thick and stagnating, which, in its dilatory flow, disturbs the filth incessantly vomited by the sewers of a great city,—fragments of all sorts, carcasses of animals, etc., etc. Suddenly the Schoolmaster hears the plash of a body, which falls heavily on the water; in its recoil the water sprinkles his very face. In the midst of the air-bubbles which rise thick and fast to the surface of the canal he sees the body of a woman, which sinks rapidly as she struggles—struggles.
Then he sees himself and the Chouette running hastily along the banks of St. Martin's Canal, carrying with them a box covered with black cloth; and yet he is still present during all the variations of agony suffered by the victim whom he and the Chouette have thrown into the canal. After the first immersion the victim rises to the surface and moves her arms in violent agitation like some one who, not knowing how to swim, tries in vain to save herself. Then she utters a piercing cry,—a cry of one in the last extremity,—despairing—which ends in the sullen, stifled sound of involuntary choking; and the woman the second time sinks beneath the troubled waters.
The screech-owl, which hovers continually motionless, imitates the convulsive rattle of the drowning wretch, as she mocked the dying groans of the cattle-dealer. In the midst of bursts of deathlike laughter the screech-owl utters, "Glou! glou! glou!"
The subterranean echoes repeated the sound.
A second time submerged the woman is fast suffocating, and makes one more desperate effort for breath; but, instead of air, it is water which she inspires. Then her head falls back, her convulsed features are swollen and become livid, her neck becomes blue and tumefied, her arms stiffen, and, in a last spasmodic effort, the drowning woman in her agony moves her feet, which are resting on the vase. Then she is surrounded by a mass of black soil, which ascends with her to the surface of the water. Scarcely has the choked wretch breathed her last sigh than she is covered with myriads of the microscopic reptiles,—the greedy and horrible vermin of the mud. The carcass floats for a moment, balances for a moment, and then sinks slowly, horizontally, the feet lower than the head, and between the double waters begins to follow the current of the land. Sometimes the dead corpse turns, and its pale face is before the Schoolmaster. Then the spectre fixes on him glaringly its two blue, glassy, and opaque eyes; the livid mouth opens. The Schoolmaster is far away from the drowning woman, and yet her lips murmur in his ears, "Glou! glou! glou!" accompanying these appalling syllables with that singular noise which a bottle thrust into the water makes when filling itself.
The screech-owl repeats, "Glou! glou! glou!" flapping her wings, and shrieking:
"The woman of the Canal St. Martin! Murder! murder! murder!"
The vision of the drowned woman disappears. The lake of blood, through which the Schoolmaster still constantly beholds Rodolph, becomes of a bronzed, black colour, then red again, and then changes instantaneously into a liquid, furnace-like, molten metal. Then that lake of fire rises—rises—rises towards the sky like an immense whirlpool. There is now a fiery horizon like iron at a white heat. This immense, boundless horizon dazzles and scorches the very eyes of the Schoolmaster, who, fascinated, fastened to the spot, cannot turn away his gaze. Then, at the bottom of this burning lava, whose reflection seems to consume him, he sees pass and repass, one by one, the black and giant spectres of his victims.
"The magic-lanthorn of remorse! remorse! remorse!" shrieks the night-bird, flapping her hideous wings, and laughing mockingly.
Notwithstanding the intolerable anguish which his impatient gaze creates, the Schoolmaster has his eyes fixed on the grisly phantoms which move in the blazing sheet. Then an indefinable horror steals over him. Passing through every step of indescribable torture, by dint of contemplating this blazing sight, he feels his eyeballs—which have replaced the blood with which his orbits were filled at the commencement of his dream—he feels his eyeballs grow hot, burning, and melt in this furnace—to smoke and bubble—and at last to become calcined in their cavities like two crucibles filled with red fire. By a fearful power, after having seen as well as felt the successive transformations of his eyeballs into ashes, he falls into the darkness of his actual blindness.
But now, suddenly, his intolerable agonies are assuaged as though by enchantment. An odorous air of delicious freshness passes over his burning eyeballs. This air is a lovely admixture of the scents of springtime, which exhale from flowers bathed in evening dew. The Schoolmaster hears all about him a gentle murmur, like that of the breeze which just stirs the leaves—like that of a brook of running waters, which rushes and murmurs on its bed of stone and moss "in the leafy month of June." Thousands of birds warble the most enchanting melodies. They are stilled, and the voices of children, of angelic tone, sing strange, unknown words—words that are "winged" (if we may use the expression), and which the Schoolmaster hears mount to heaven with gentle motion. A feeling of moral health, of tranquillity, of undefined languor, creeps over him by degrees. It is an expansion of the heart, an elevation of the mind, an effort of the soul, of which no physical feeling, how delicious soever it may be, can impart the least idea. He feels himself softly soaring in a heavenly sphere; he seems to rise to an immeasurable height.
··········
After having for some moments revelled in this unspeakable felicity he again finds himself in the dark abyss of his habitual thoughts. His dream continues; but he is again but the muzzled miscreant who blasphemes and curses in the paroxysm of his impotent rage. A voice is heard—sonorous—solemn. It is Rodolph's. The Schoolmaster starts "like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons." He has the vague consciousness of a dream; but the alarm with which Rodolph inspires him is so great that he tries, but vainly, to escape from this fresh vision. The voice speaks—he listens. The tone of Rodolph is not severe; it is "rather in sorrow than in anger."
"Unhappy man," he says to the Schoolmaster, "the hour of your repentance has not yet sounded. God only knows when it will strike. The punishment of your crimes is still incomplete; you have suffered, but not expiated. Destiny follows out its work of full justice. Your accomplices have become your tormentors. A woman, a child, tame, subdue, conquer you. When I sentenced you to a terrible punishment for your crimes I said—do you remember my words?—'You have wickedly abused the great bodily strength bestowed upon you; I will paralyse that strength. The strongest have trembled before you; I will make you henceforward shrink in the presence of the weakest of beings.' You have left the obscure retreat in which you might have dwelt for repentance and expiation. You were afraid of silence and solitude. You sought to drown remembrance by new crimes. Just now, in a fearful and bloodthirsty access of passion, you have wished to kill your wife. She is here under the same roof as yourself. She sleeps without defence. You have a knife. Her apartment is close at hand. There was nothing to prevent you from reaching her. Nothing could have protected her from your rage—nothing but your impotence. The dream you have had, and in which you are still bound, may teach you much, may save you. The mysterious phantoms of this dream bear with them a most pregnant meaning. The lake of blood, in which your victims have appeared, is the blood you have shed. The molten lava which replaced it is the gnawing, eating remorse, which must consume you before one day, that the Almighty, having mercy on your protracted tortures, shall call you to himself, and let you taste the ineffable sweetness of his gracious forgiveness. But this will not be. No, no! these warnings will be useless. Far from repenting, you regret every day, with horrid blasphemies, the time when you could commit such atrocities. Alas! from this continual struggle between your bloodthirsty desires and the impossibility of satisfying them,—between your habits of fierce oppression and the compulsion of submitting to beings as weak as they are depraved,—there will result to you a fate so fearful, so appalling. Ah, unhappy wretch!"
Rodolph's voice faltered, and for a moment he was silent, as if emotion and horror had hindered him from proceeding. The Schoolmaster's hair bristled on his brow. What could be—would be—that fate, which even his executioner pitied?
"The fate that awaits you is so horrible," resumed Rodolph, "that, if the Almighty, in his inexorable and all-powerful vengeance, would make you in your person expiate all the crimes of all mankind, he could not devise a more fearful punishment! Ah, woe for you! woe for you!"
At this moment the Schoolmaster uttered a piercing shriek, and awoke with a bound at this horrid, frightful dream.
The hour of nine had struck on the Bouqueval clock, when Madame Georges softly entered the chamber of Fleur-de-Marie. The light slumber of the young girl was quickly broken, and she awoke to find her kind friend standing by her bedside. A brilliant winter's sun darted its rays through the blinds and chintz window-curtains, the pink linings of which cast a bright glow on the pale countenance of La Goualeuse, giving it the look of health it so greatly needed.
"Well, my child," said Madame Georges, sitting down and gently kissing her forehead, "how are you this morning?"
"Much better, madame, I thank you."
"I hope you were not awoke very early this morning?"
"No, indeed, madame."
"I am glad of it; the blind man and his son, who were permitted to sleep here last night, insisted upon quitting the farm immediately it was light, and I was fearful that the noise made in opening the gates might have woke you."
"Poor things! why did they go so very early?"
"I know not. After you became more calm and comfortable last night, I went down into the kitchen for the purpose of seeing them, but they had pleaded extreme weariness, and begged permission to retire. Father Châtelain tells me the blind man does not seem very right in his head; and the whole body of servants were unanimous in praising the tenderness and care with which the boy attended upon his blind parent. But now, my dear Marie, listen to me; you must not expose yourself to the risk of taking fresh cold after the attack of fever you suffered from last night, and, therefore, I recommend your keeping quite quiet all day, and not leaving the parlour at all."
"Nay, madame, I have promised M. le Curé to be at the rectory at five o'clock; pray allow me to go, as I am expected."
"Indeed I cannot, it would be very imprudent; I can perceive you have passed a very bad night, your eyes are quite heavy."
"I have not been able to rest through the most frightful dreams which pursued me whenever I tried to sleep. I fancied myself in the power of a wicked woman who used to torment me most cruelly when I was a child; and I kept starting up in dread and alarm. I am ashamed of such silly weakness as to allow dreams to frighten me, but, indeed, I suffered so much during the night that when I awoke my pillow was wetted with my tears."
"I am truly sorry for this weakness, as you justly style it, my dear child," said Madame Georges, with affectionate concern, seeing the eyes of Fleur-de-Marie again filling fast, "because I perceive the pain it occasions you."
The poor girl, overpowered by her feelings, threw her arms around the neck of her adopted mother and buried her sobs in her bosom.
"Marie, Marie! my child, you terrify me; why, why is this?"
"Pardon me, dear madame, I beseech you! Indeed, I know not myself what has come over me, but for the last two days my heart has seemed full almost to bursting. I cannot restrain my tears, though I know not wherefore I weep. A fearful dread of some great evil about to befall me weighs down my spirits and resists every attempt to shake it off."
"Come! come! I shall scold you in earnest if you thus give way to imaginary terrors."
At this moment Claudine, whose previous tap at the door had been unheard, entered the room.
"What is it, Claudine?"
"Madame, Pierre has just arrived from Arnouville, in Madame Dubreuil's chaise; he brings a letter for you which he says is of great importance."
Madame Georges took the paper from Claudine's hand, opened it and read as follows: