"I am sorry, La Louve, if I ever made you sad; but I do not remember ever having said anything—"
"Oh," cried La Louve, interrupting her companion with angry impatience, "what you do is sometimes as affecting as what you say! You are so clever!"
"Do not be angry, La Louve, but explain what you mean."
"Yesterday, in the workroom, I noticed you,—you bent your head over the work you were sewing, and a large tear fell on your hand. You looked at it for a minute, and then you lifted your hand to your lips, as if to kiss and wipe it away. Is this true?"
"Yes," said La Goualeuse, blushing.
"There was nothing in this; but at the moment you looked so unhappy, so very miserable, that I felt my very heart turned, as it were, inside out. Tell me, do you find this amusing? Why, now, I have been as hard as flint on all occasions. No one ever saw me shed a tear,—and yet, only looking at your chit face, I felt my heart sink basely within me! Yes, for this is baseness,—pure cowardice; and the proof is, that for three days I have not dared to write to Martial, my lover, my conscience is so bad. Yes, being with you has enfeebled my mind, and this must be put an end to,—there's enough of it; this will else do me mischief, I am sure. I wish to remain as I am, and not become a joke and despised thing to myself."
"You are angry with me, La Louve?"
"Yes, you are a bad acquaintance for me; and if it continues, why, in a fortnight's time, instead of calling me the She-wolf, they would call me the Ewe! But no, thank ye, it sha'n't come to that yet,—Martial would kill me; and so, to make an end of this matter, I will break up all acquaintance with you; and that I may be quite separated from you, I shall ask to be put in another room. If they refuse me, I will do some piece of mischief to put me in wind again, and that I may be sent to the black-hole for the remainder of my time here. And this was what I had to say to you, Goualeuse."
Timidly taking her companion's hand, who looked at her with gloomy distrust, Fleur-de-Marie said:
"I am sure, La Louve, that you take an interest in me, not because you are cowardly, but because you are generous-hearted. Brave hearts are the only ones which sympathise in the misfortunes of others."
"There is neither generosity nor courage in it," said La Louve, coarsely; "it is downright cowardice. Besides, I don't choose to have it said that I sympathise with any one. It ain't true."
"Then I will not say so, La Louve; but since you have taken an interest in me, you will let me feel grateful to you, will you not?"
"Oh, if you like! This evening, I shall be in another room than yours, or alone in the dark hole, and I shall soon be out, thank God!"
"And where shall you go when you leave here?"
"Why, home, to be sure, to the Rue Pierre-Lescat. I have my furniture there."
"And Martial?" said La Goualeuse, who hoped to keep up the conversation with La Louve, by interesting her in what she most cared for; "shall you be glad to see him again?"
"Yes, oh, yes!" she replied, with a passionate air. "When I was taken up, he was just recovering from an illness,—a fever which he had from being always in the water. For seventeen days and seventeen nights I never left him for a moment, and I sold half my kit in order to pay the doctor, the drags and all. I may boast of that, and I do boast of it. If my man lives, it is I who saved him. Yesterday I burnt another candle for him. It is folly,—a mere whim,—but yet it is all one, and we have sometimes very good effects in burning candles for a person's recovery."
"And, Martial, where is he now? What is he doing?"
"He is still on an island, near the bridge, at Asnières."
"On an island?"
"Yes, he is settled there, with his family, in a lone house. He is always at loggerheads with the persons who protect the fishing; but when he is once in his boat, with his double-barrelled gun, why, they who approach him had better look out!" said La Louve, proudly.
"What, then, is his occupation?"
"He poaches in the night; and then, as he is as bold as a lion, when some coward wishes to get up a quarrel with another, why, he will lend his hand."
"Where did you first know Martial?"
"At Paris. He wished to be a locksmith,—a capital business,—always with red-hot iron and fire around you; dangerous you may suppose, but then that suited him. But he, like me, was badly disposed, and could not agree with his master; and then, too, they were always throwing his father and one of his brothers in his teeth. But that's nothing to you. The end of it was, that he returned to his mother, who is a very devil in sin and wickedness, and began to poach on the river. He cannot see me at Paris, and in the daytime I go to see him in his island, the Ile du Ravageur, near Asnières. It's very near; though if it were farther off, I would go all the same, even if I went on my hands and knees, or swam all the way, for I can swim like an otter."
"You must be very happy to go into the country," said La Goualeuse, with a sigh; "especially if you are as fond as I am of walking in the fields."
"I prefer walking in the woods and large forests with my man."
"In the forests! Oh, ain't you afraid?"
"Afraid! Oh, yes, afraid! I should think so! What can a she-wolf fear? The thicker and more lonely the forest, the better I should like it. A lone hut in which I should live with Martial as a poacher, to go with him at night to set the snares for the game, and then, if the keepers came to apprehend us, to fire at them, both of us, whilst my man and I were hid in underwood,—ah, that would indeed be happiness!"
"Then you have lived in the woods, La Louve?"
"Never."
"Who gave you these ideas, then?"
"Martial."
"How did he acquire them?"
"He was a poacher in the forest of Rambouillet; and it is not a year ago that he was supposed to have fired at a keeper who had fired at him, the vagabond! However, there was no proof of the fact, but Martial was obliged to leave that part of the country. Then he came to Paris to try and be a locksmith, and then I first saw him. As he was too wild to be on good terms with his master, he preferred returning to his relations at Asnières, and poach in the river; it is not so slavish. Still he always regrets the woods, and some day or other will return to them. From his talking to me of poaching and forests, he has crammed my head with these ideas, and I now think that is the life I was born for. But it is always so. What your man likes, you like. If Martial had been a thief, I should have been a thief. When one has a man, we like to be like him."
"And where are your own relations, La Louve?"
"How should I know?"
"Is it long since you saw them?"
"I don't know whether they are dead or alive."
"Were they, then, so very unkind to you?"
"Neither kind nor unkind. I was about eleven years old, I think, when my mother went off with a soldier. My father, who was a day-labourer, brought home a mistress with him into our garret, and two boys she had,—one six, and the other my own age. She was a barrow-woman. She went on pretty well at first, but after a time, whilst she was out with her fruit, a fish-woman used to come and drink with my father, and this the apple-woman found out. Then, from this time, every evening, we had such battles and rows in the house that I and the two boys were half dead with fright. We all three slept together, for we had but one room. One day,—it was her birthday, Sainte Madeleine's fête,—and she scolded him because he had not congratulated her on it. From one word another arose, and my father concluded by breaking her head with the handle of the broom. I really thought he had killed her. She fell like a lump of lead, but la mère Madeleine was hard-lived, and hard-headed also. After that she returned my father with interest all the blows he had given her, and once bit him so savagely in the hand that the piece of flesh remained between her teeth. I must say that these contests were what we may call the grandes eaux at Versailles. On common and working-days the skirmishes were of a lighter sort,—there were bruises, but no blood."
"Was this woman unkind to you?"
"Mère Madeleine? No; on the contrary. She was a little hasty, but, otherwise, a good sort of woman enough. But at last my father got tired, and left her and the little furniture we had. He came out of Burgundy, and most probably returned to his own country. I was fifteen or sixteen at this time."
"And were you still with the old mistress of your father?"
"Where else should I be? Then she took up with a tiler, who came to lodge with us. Of the two boys of Mère Madeleine, one, the eldest, was drowned at the Ile des Cygnes, and the other went apprentice to a carpenter."
"And what did you do with this woman?"
"Oh, I helped to draw her barrow, made the soup, and carried her man his dinner; and when he came home drunk, which happened oftener than was his turn, I helped Mère Madeleine to keep him in order, for we still lived in the same apartment. He was as vicious as a sandy-haired donkey, when he was tipsy, and tried to kill us. Once, if we had not snatched his axe from him, he would certainly have murdered us both. Mère Madeleine had a cut on the shoulder, which bled till the room looked like a slaughter-house."
"And how did you become—what—we—are?" said Fleur-de-Marie, hesitatingly.
"Why, little Charley, Madeleine's son, who was afterwards drowned at the Ile des Cygnes, was my first lover, almost from the time when he, his mother, and his brother, came to lodge with us when we were but mere children; after him the tiler was my lover, who threatened else to turn me out-of-doors. I was afraid that Mère Madeleine would also send me away if she discovered anything. She did, however; but as she was really a good creature, she said, 'As it is so, and you are sixteen years old, and fit for nothing, for you are too self-willed to take a situation or learn a business, you shall go with me and be inscribed in the police-books; as you have no relations, I will answer for you, as I brought you up, as one may say; and that will give you a position authorised by the government, and you will have nothing to do but to be merry and dress smart. I shall have no uneasiness about you, and you will no longer be a charge to me. What do you say to it, my girl?' 'Why, I think indeed you are right,' was my answer; 'I had not thought of that.' Well, we went to the Bureau des Mœurs. She answered for me, in the usual way, and from that time I was inscrite. I met Mère Madeleine a year afterwards. I was drinking with my man, and we asked her to join us, and she told us that the tiler had been sentenced to the galleys. Since then I have never seen her, but some one, I don't remember who, declared that she had been seen at the Morgue three months ago. If it were true, really so much the worse, for Mère Madeleine was a good sort of woman,—her heart was in her hand, and she had no more gall than a pigeon."
Fleur-de-Marie, though plunged young in an atmosphere of corruption, had subsequently breathed so pure an air that she experienced a deeply painful sensation at the horrid recital of La Louve. And if we have had the sad courage to make it, it has been because all the world should know that, hideous as it is, it is still a thousand times less revolting than other countless realities.
Ignorance and misery often conduct the lower classes to these fearful degradations, human and social.
Yes; there is a crowd of hovels and dens, where children and adults, girls and boys, legitimate children and bastards, lying pell-mell on the same mattress, have continually before their eyes these infamous examples of drunkenness, violence, debauch, and murder. Yes, and too frequently unnatural crimes at the tenderest age add to this accumulation of horrors.
The rich may shroud their vices in shadow and mystery, and respect the sanctity of the domestic hearth, but the most honest artisans, occupying nearly always a single chamber with their family, are compelled, from want of beds and space, to make their children sleep together, sons and daughters, close to themselves, husbands and wives.
If we shudder at the fatal consequences of such necessity almost inevitably imposed on poor, but honest artisans, what must it be with workpeople depraved by ignorance or misconduct? What fearful examples do they not present to unhappy children, abandoned, or rather excited, from their tenderest youth to every brutal impulse and animal propensity? Have they even the idea of what is right, decent, and modest? Must they not be as strange to social laws as the savages of the New World? Poor creatures! Corrupted at their very birth, who in the prisons, whither their wanderings and idleness often lead them, are already stigmatised by the coarse and terrible metaphor, "Graines de Bagne" (Seeds of the Gaol)! and the metaphor is a correct one. This sinister prediction is almost invariably accomplished: the Galleys or the Bridewell, each sex has its destiny.
We do not intend here to justify any profligacy. Let us only compare the voluntary degradation of a female carefully educated in the bosom of a wealthy family, which has set her none but the most virtuous examples. Let us compare, we say, this degradation with that of La Louve, a creature, as it were, reared in vice, by vice, and for vice, and to whom is pointed out, not without reason, prostitution as a condition protected by the government! This is true. There is a bureau where she is registered, certificated, and signs her name. A bureau where a mother has a right to authorise the prostitution of her daughter; a husband the prostitution of his wife. This place is termed the "Bureau des Mœurs" (the Office of Manners). Must not society have a vice most deeply rooted, incurable in the place of the laws which regulate marriage, when power,—yes, power,—that grave and moral abstraction, is obliged, not only to tolerate, but to regulate, to legalise, to protect, to render it less injurious and dangerous, this sale of body and soul; which, multiplied by the unbridled appetites of an immense population, acquires daily an almost incalculable amount.
Goualeuse, repressing the emotion which this sad confession of her companion had made in her, said to her, timidly:
"Listen to me without being angry."
"Well, what have you to say? I think I have gossiped enough; but it is no matter, as it is the last time we shall talk together."
"Are you happy, La Louve?"
"What do you mean?"
"Does the life you lead make you happy?"
"Here,—at St. Lazare?"
"No; when you are at home and free."
"Yes, I am happy."
"Always?"
"Always."
"You would not change your life for any other?"
"For any other? What—what other life can there be for me?"
"Tell me, La Louve," continued Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's silence, "don't you sometimes like to build castles in the air? It is so amusing in prison."
"Castles in the air! About what?"
"About Martial."
"Yes."
"Ma foi! I never built any."
"Let me build one for you and Martial."
"Bah! What's the use of it?"
"To pass away time."
"Well, let's have your castle in the air."
"Well, then, only imagine that a lucky chance, such as sometimes occurs, brings you in contact with a person who says, 'Forsaken by your father and mother, your infancy was surrounded by such bad examples that you must be pitied, as much as blamed, for having become—'"
"Become what?"
"What you and I have become," replied Goualeuse, in a soft voice; and then she continued, "Suppose, then, that this person were to say to you, 'You love Martial; he loves you. Do you and he cease to lead an improper life,—instead of being his mistress, become his wife.'"
La Louve shrugged her shoulders.
"Do you think he would have me for his wife?"
"Except poaching, he has never committed any guilty act, has he?"
"No; he is a poacher in the river, as he was in the woods, and he is right. Why, now, ain't fish like game, for those to have who can catch them? Where do they bear the proprietor's mark?"
"Well, suppose that, having given up the dangerous trade of marauding on the river, he desires to become an honest man; suppose he inspires, by the frankness of his good resolutions, so much confidence in an unknown benefactor that he gives him a situation,—let us see, our castle is in the air,—gives him a situation—say as gamekeeper, for instance. Why, I should suppose that, as he had been a poacher, nothing could better suit his taste; it is the same occupation, but in the right way."
"Yes, ma foi! it would be still to live in the woods."
"Only he would not have the situation but on condition that he would marry you, and take you with him."
"I go with Martial?"
"Yes; why, you said you should be so happy to live together in the depths of the forest. Shouldn't you prefer, instead of the miserable hut of the poacher, in which you would hide like guilty creatures, to have a neat little cottage, which you would take care of as the active and hard-working housekeeper?"
"You are making game of me. Can this be possible?"
"Who knows what may happen? But it's only a castle in the air."
"Ah, if it's only that, all very well!"
"La Louve, I think that I already see you established in your little home in the depths of the forest, with your husband and two or three children. Children,—what happiness! Are they not?"
"The children of my man!" exclaimed La Louve, with intense eagerness. "Ah, yes! They would be dearly loved,—they would!"
"How they would keep you company in your solitude! And, then, when they grew up they would be able to render you great service: the youngest would pick up the dead branches for fuel; the eldest would go into the grass of the forest to watch a cow or two, which they would give you as a reward for your husband's activity, for as he had been a poacher he would make a better keeper."
"To be sure; that's true enough. But really your castles in the air are very amusing. Go on, Goualeuse."
"They would be very much satisfied with your husband, and you would have some allowances from your master, a poultry-yard, a garden; and, in fact, you would have to work very hard, La Louve, from morning till night."
"Oh, if that were all, if I once had my good man near me, I should not be afraid of work! I have stout arms."
"And you would have plenty to employ them, I will answer for that. There is so much to do,—so much to do! There is the stable to clean, the meals to get ready, the clothes to mend; to-day is washing day, next day there's the bread to bake, or perhaps the house to clean from top to bottom; and, then, the other keepers would say, 'There is no such manager as Martial's wife; from the cellar to the garret, in her house, it is a pattern of cleanliness, and the children are taken such care of! But then she is so very industrious, Madame Martial.'"
"Really though, La Goualeuse, is it true? I should call myself Madame Martial," said La Louve, with a sort of pride,—"Madame Martial!"
"Which is better than being called La Louve,—is it not?"
"Pardieu! Why, there's no doubt but I should rather be called by my man's name than the name of a wild beast; but—bah!—bah! louve I was born, louve I shall die!"
"Who knows? Who can say? Not to shrink from a life that is hard, but honest, will ensure success. So, then, work would not frighten you?"
"Oh, certainly not! It is not a husband and four or five brats to take care of that would give me any trouble!"
"But then it would not be all work; there are moments for rest. In the winter evenings, when the children were put to bed, and your husband smoked his pipe whilst he was cleaning his gun or caressing his dogs, you would have a little leisure."
"Leisure,—sit with my arms crossed before me! Ma foi! No, I would rather mend the linen, by the side of the fire in the evening. That is not a very hard job, and in winter the days are so short."
As Fleur-de-Marie proceeded, La Louve forgot more and more of the present for the dreams of the future, as deeply interested as La Goualeuse had been before her, when Rodolph had talked to her of the rustic delights of the Bouqueval farm. La Louve did not attempt to conceal the wild tastes with which her lover had inspired her. Remembering the deep and wholesome impression which she had experienced from the smiling picture of Rodolph in relation to a country life, Fleur-de-Marie was desirous of trying the same means of action on La Louve, thinking, with reason, that, if her companion was so far affected at the sketch of a rude, poor, and solitary life, as to desire ardently such an existence, she merited interest and pity. Delighted to see her companion listen to her with attention, La Goualeuse continued, smiling:
"And then you see, Madame Martial,—let me call you so,—what does it matter—"
"Quite the contrary; it flatters me." Then La Louve shrugged her shoulders, and, smiling, also added, "What folly to play at madame! Are we children? Well, it's all the same; go on,—it's quite amusing. You said—"
"I was saying, Madame Martial, that in speaking of your life, the winter in the thickest of the woods, we were only alluding to the worst of the seasons."
"Ma foi! No, that is not the worst. To hear the wind whistle all night in the forest, and the wolves howl from time to time far off, very far off,—I shouldn't tire of that; provided I was at the fireside with my man and my children, or even quite alone, if my man was going his rounds. Ah, I am not afraid of a gun! If I had my children to defend, I could do that,—the wolf would guard her cubs!"
"Oh, I can well believe you! You are very brave—you are; but I am a coward. I prefer spring to the winter, when the leaves are green, when the pretty wild flowers bloom, and they smell so sweet, so sweet that the air is quite scented; and then your children would roll about so merrily in the fresh grass; and then the forest would be so thick that you could hardly see your house in the midst of the foliage,—I can fancy that I see it now. In front of the house is a vine full of leaves, which your husband has planted, and which shades the bank of turf where he sleeps during the noonday heat, whilst you are going backwards and forwards desiring the children not to wake their father. I don't know whether you have remarked it, but in the heat of summer about midday there is in the woods as deep silence as at midnight, you don't hear the leaves shake, nor the birds sing."
"Yes, that's true," replied La Louve, almost mechanically, who became more and more forgetful of the reality, and almost believed she saw before her the smiling pictures which the poetical imagination of Fleur-de-Marie, so instinctively amorous of the beauties of nature, presented before her.
Delighted at the deep attention which her companion lent her, La Goualeuse continued, allowing herself to be drawn on by the charm of the thoughts which she called up:
"There is one thing which I love almost as well as the silence of the woods, and that is the noise of the heavy drops of rain falling on the leaves; do you like that, too?"
"Oh, yes! I am very fond of a summer shower."
"So am I; and when the trees, the moss, and the grass, are all moistened, what a delightfully fresh odour they give out! And then, how the sun, as it passes over the trees, makes all the little drops of water glisten as they hang from the leaves! Have you ever noticed that?"
"Yes; I remember it now because you tell me of it. Yet, how droll all this is! But, Goualeuse, you talk so well that one seems to see everything,—to see everything just as you talk; and then, I really do not know how to explain it all. But now, what you say seems good, it is quite pleasant,—just like the rain we were talking of."
"Oh, don't suppose that we are the only creatures who love a summer shower! The dear little birds, how delighted they are! How they shake their feathers, whilst they warble so joyously; not more joyously, though, than your children,—your children as free, and gay, and light-hearted as they! And then, look! as the day declines the youngest children run across the wood to meet the elder, who brings back the two heifers from pasture, for they have heard the tinkling of the bell in the distance!"
"Yes, Goualeuse, and I think I see the smallest and boldest, whom his brother has put astride on the back of one of the cows."
"And one would say that the poor animal knows what burden she bears, she steps so carefully. But it is supper-time; your eldest child, whilst he has been tending the cows at pasture, has amused himself with gathering for you a basket of beautiful strawberries, which he has brought quite fresh under a thick covering of wild violets."
"Strawberries and violets,—ah, what a lovely smell they have! But where the deuce did you find all these ideas, La Goualeuse?"
"In the woods, where the strawberries ripen and the violets blow, you have only to look and gather them—But let us go on with our housekeeping. It is night, and you must milk your heifers, prepare your supper under the shelter of the vine, for you hear your husband's dogs bark, and then their master's voice, who, tired as he is, comes home singing,—and who could not sing when on a fine summer's eve with cheerful heart you return to the house where a good wife and five children are waiting for you?—eh, Madame Martial?"
"True, true; one could not but sing," replied La Louve, becoming more and more thoughtful.
"Unless one weeps for joy," continued Fleur-de-Marie, herself much touched, "and such tears are as sweet as songs. And then, when night has completely come, what a pleasure to sit in the arbour and enjoy the calmness of a fine evening, to breathe the sweet odour of the forest, to hear the prattle of the children, to look at the stars, then the heart is so full,—so full that it must pour out its prayer; it must thank him to whom we are indebted for the freshness of the evening, the sweet scent of the woods, the gentle brightness of the starry sky! After this thanksgiving or this prayer, we go to sleep tranquilly till the next day, and then again thank our Creator. And this poor, hard-working, but calm and honest life, is the same each and every day."
"Every day!" repeated La Louve, with her head drooping on her chest, her look fixed, her breast oppressed, "for it is true the good God is good to give us wherewithal to live upon, and to make us happy with so little."
"Well, tell me now," continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently,—"tell me, ought not he to be blessed, after God, who should give you this peaceable and laborious life, instead of the wretched existence you lead in the mud of the streets of Paris?"
This word Paris suddenly recalled La Louve to reality.
A strange phenomenon had taken place in the mind of this creature.
The simple painting of a humble and rude condition—the mere recital by turns—lighted up by the soft rays from the domestic hearth, gilded by some joyful sunbeams, refreshed by the breeze of the great woods, or perfumed by the odour of wild flowers,—this narrative had made on La Louve a more profound or more sensible impression than could an exhortation of the most pious morality have effected.
In truth, in proportion as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had longed to be, and meant to be, an indefatigable manager, a worthy wife, an affectionate and devoted mother.
To inspire, even for an instant, a violent, immoral, and degraded woman with a love of home, respect for duty, a taste for labour, and gratitude towards her Creator; and that, by only promising her what God gives to all, the sun, the sky, and the depths of the forest,—what society owes to those who lack a roof and a loaf,—was, indeed, a glorious triumph for Fleur-de-Marie! Could the most severe moralist—the most overpowering preacher—have obtained more in threatening, in their monotonous and menacing orations, all human vengeances—all divine thunders?
The painful anger with which La Louve was possessed when she returned to the reality, after having allowed herself to be charmed by the new and wholesome reverie in which, for the first time, Fleur-de-Marie had plunged her, proved the influence of her words on her unfortunate companion. The more bitter were La Louve's regrets when she fell back from this consoling delusion to the horrors of her real position, the greater was La Goualeuse's triumph. After a moment's silence and reflection, La Louve raised her head suddenly, passed her hand over her brow, and rose threatening and angry.
"See, see! I had reason to mistrust you, and to desire not to listen to you, because it would turn to ill for me! Why did you talk thus to me? Why make a jest of me? Why mock me? And because I have been so weak as to say to you that I should like to live in the depths of a forest with my man. Who are you, then, that you should make a fool of me in this way? You, miserable girl, don't know what you have done! Now, in spite of myself, I shall always be thinking of this forest, the house, and—and—the children—and all that happiness which I shall never have—never—never! And if I cannot forget what you have told me, why, my life will be one eternal punishment,—a hell,—and that by your fault! Yes, by your fault!"
"So much the better! Oh, so much the better!" said Fleur-de-Marie.
"You say, so much the better!" exclaimed La Louve, with her eyes glaring.
"Yes,—so much the better! For if your present miserable life appears to you a hell, you will prefer that of which I have spoken to you."
"What is the use of preferring it, since it is not destined for me? What is the use of regretting that I walk the streets, since I shall die in the streets?" exclaimed La Louve, more and more irritated, and taking in her powerful grasp the small hand of Fleur-de-Marie. "Answer—answer! Why do you try to make me desire that which I cannot have."
"To desire an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of that life, as I have already told you," replied Fleur-de-Marie, without attempting to disengage her hand.
"Well, and what then? Suppose I am worthy, what does that prove? How much the better off will that make me?"
"To see realised what you consider as a dream," answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so serious and full of conviction that La Louve, again under control, let go La Goualeuse's hand, and gazed at her in amazement.
"Listen to me, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, in a voice full of feeling; "do you think me so wicked as to excite such ideas and hopes in you, if I were not sure that, whilst I made you blush at your present condition, I gave you the means to quit it?"
"You! You can do this?"
"I! No; but some one who is good, and great, and powerful."
"Great and powerful?"
"Listen, La Louve. Three months ago I was, like you, a lost, an abandoned creature. One day he of whom I speak to you with tears of gratitude,"—and Fleur-de-Marie wiped her eyes,—"one day he came to me, and he was not afraid, abased and despised as I was, to say comforting words to me, the first I had ever heard. I told him my sufferings, my miseries, my shame; I concealed nothing from him, just as you have related to me all your past life, La Louve. After having listened to me with kindness, he did not blame, but pitied me; he did not even reproach me with my disgraceful position, but talked to me of the calm and pure life which was found in the country."
"As you did just now?"
"Then my situation appeared to me the more frightful, in proportion as the future he held out to me seemed more beautiful."
"Like me?"
"Yes, and so I said as you did,—What use, alas! is it to make me fancy this paradise,—me, who am chained to hell? But I was wrong to despair; for he of whom I speak is so good, so just, that he is incapable of making a false hope shine in the eyes of a poor creature who asked no one for pity, happiness, or hope."
"And what did he do for you?"
"He treated me like a sick child. I was, like you, immersed in a corrupted air, and he sent me to breathe a wholesome and reviving atmosphere. I was also living amongst hideous and criminal beings, and he confided me to persons as good as himself, who have purified my soul and elevated my mind; for he communicates to all those who love and respect him a spark of his own refined intelligence. Yes, if my words move you, La Louve, if my tears make your tears flow, it is that his mind and thought inspire me. If I speak to you of the happier future which you will obtain by repentance, it is because I can promise you this future in his name, although, at this moment, he is ignorant of the engagement I make. In fact, I say to you, Hope! because he always listens to the voice of those who desire to become better; for God sent him on earth to make people believe in his providence!"
As she spoke, Fleur-de-Marie's countenance became radiant, and her pale cheeks suffused with a delicate carnation; her beautiful eyes sparkled, and she appeared so touchingly beautiful that La Louve gazed on her with respectful admiration, and said:
"Where am I? Do I dream? Who are you, then? Oh, I was right when I said you were not one of us! But, then, you talk so well,—you, who can do so much, you, who know such powerful people, how is it that you are here, a prisoner with us?"
Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame Armand came up and interrupted her, to conduct her to Madame d'Harville. La Louve remained overwhelmed with surprise, and the inspectress said to her:
"I see, with pleasure, that the presence of La Goualeuse in the prison has brought good fortune to you and your companions. I know you have made a subscription for poor Mont Saint-Jean; that is kind and charitable, La Louve, and will be of service to you. I was sure that you were better than you allowed yourself to appear. In recompense for this kind action, I think I can promise you that the term of your imprisonment shall be shortened by several days."
Madame Armand then walked away, followed by Fleur-de-Marie.
We must not be astonished at the almost eloquent language of Fleur-de-Marie, when we remember that her mind, so wonderfully gifted, had rapidly developed itself, thanks to the education and instruction she had received at Bouqueval farm.
The young girl was, indeed, strong in her experience.
The sentiments she had awakened in the heart of La Louve had been awakened in her own heart by Rodolph, and under almost similar circumstances.
Believing that she detected some good instincts in her companion, she had endeavoured to lure her back to honesty, by proving to her (according to Rodolph's theory, applied to the farm at Bouqueval) that it was her interest to become honest, by pointing out to her restitution to the paths of rectitude in smiling and attractive colours.
And here let us repeat that, in our opinion, an incomplete as well as stupid and inefficacious mode is employed to inspire the poor and ignorant classes with a hatred of evil and a love of good.
In order to turn them away from the bad path, they are incessantly threatened with divine and human vengeance; incessantly a sinister clank is sounded in their ears: prison-keep, fetters, handcuffs; and, in the distance, in dark shadow, at the extreme horizon of crime, they have their attention directed to the executioner's axe glittering amidst the glare of everlasting flames. We observe that the intimidation is constant, fearful, and appalling. To him who does ill, imprisonment, infamy, punishment. This is just. But to him who does well does society award noble gifts, glorious distinctions? No.
Does society encourage resignation, order, probity, in that immense mass of artisans who are for ever doomed to toil and privation, and almost always to profound misery, by benevolent rewards? No.
Is the scaffold which the criminal ascends a protection for the man of integrity? No.
Strange and fatal symbol! Justice is represented as blind, bearing in one hand a sword to punish, and in the other scales in which she weighs accusation and defence. This is not the image of Justice. This is the image of Law, or, rather, of the man who condemns or acquits according to his conscience. Justice should hold in one hand a sword, and in the other a crown,—one to strike the wicked, and the other to recompense the good. The people would then see that, if there is a terrible punishment for evil, there is a brilliant recompense for good; whilst as it is, in their plain and simple sense, the people seek in vain for the contrary side of tribunals, gaols, galleys, and scaffolds. The people see plainly a criminal justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, enlightened men, always employed in searching out, detecting, and punishing the evil-doers. They do not see the virtuous justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, and enlightened men, always searching out and rewarding the honest man. All says to him, Tremble! Nothing says to him, Hope! All threatens him; nothing consoles him!
The state annually expends many millions for the sterile punishment of crimes. With this enormous sum it keeps prisoners and gaolers, galley-slaves and galley-sergeants, scaffolds and executioners. This is necessary? Agreed. But how much does the state disburse for the rewards (so salutary, so fruitful) for honest men? Nothing. And this is not all, as we shall demonstrate when the course of this recital shall conduct us to the state prison; how many artisans of irreproachable honesty would attain the summit of their wishes if they were assured of enjoying one day the bodily comforts of prisoners, always certain of good food, good bed, and good shelter? And yet, in the name of their dignity, as honest men, long and painfully tried, have they not a right to claim the same care and comforts as criminals,—such, for instance, as Morel, the lapidary, who had toiled for twenty years, industrious, honest, and resigned, in the midst of bitter misery and sore temptations? Do not such men deserve sufficiently well of society, that society should try and find them out, and if not recompense them, for the honour of humanity, at least support them in the painful and difficult path which they tread so courageously? Is the man of worth so modest that he finds greater security than the thief or assassin? and are not these always detected by criminal justice? Alas, it is a utopia, but it is consoling!
Suppose, for the moment, a society were so organised that it would hold an assizes of virtue, as we have assizes of crime,—a public ministry pointing out noble actions, disclosing them to the view of all, as we now denounce crimes to the avenging power of the laws. We will give two instances—two justices—and let our readers say which is most fruitful in instruction, in consequences, in positive results. One man has killed another, for the purpose of robbing him; at break of day they stealthily erect the guillotine in an obscure corner of Paris and cut off the assassin's head before the dregs of the populace, which laughs at the judge, the sufferer, and the executioner. This is the last resort of society. This is the chastisement she bestows on the greatest crime which can be committed against her. This is the most terrible, the most wholesome warning she can give to her population,—the only one, for there is no counterpoise to this keen axe, dripping with blood; no, society has no spectacle, mild and benevolent, to oppose to this funereal scene.
Let us go on with our utopia. Would it not be otherwise if almost every day the people had before their eyes some illustrious virtues greatly glorified and substantially rewarded by the state? Would it not be to encourage good continually, if we often saw an august, imposing, and venerable tribunal summon before it, in presence of an immense multitude, a poor and honest artisan, whose long, intelligent, and enduring life should be described, whilst he was thus addressed:
"For twenty years you have manfully struggled against misfortune, your family has been brought up by you in the principles of honour and rectitude, your superior virtues have greatly distinguished you,—you merit praise and recompense. Society, always vigilant, just, and all-powerful, never leaves in oblivion either good or evil. Every man is recompensed according to his works. The state assures to you a pension sufficient for your wants. Obtaining this deserved mark of public notice, you will end in leisure and ease a life which is an example to all; and thus are and will be exalted those who, like yourself, shall have struggled for many years with an admirable persistence in good, and given proof of rare and grand moral qualities. Your example will encourage a great many to imitate you; hope will lighten the painful burden which their destiny imposes on them for so many years of their life. Animated by a salutary emulation, they will energetically struggle to accomplish the most arduous duties, in order that one day they may be distinguished from the rest, and rewarded as you are."
We ask, which of the two sights—the beheaded assassin, or the good man rewarded—would act on the million with more salutary and more fruitful effect?
No doubt many delicate minds will be indignant at the bare thought of these ignoble substantial rewards awarded to the most ethereal thing in the world,—Virtue! They will find all sorts of arguments, more or less philosophical, platonic, theological, and especially economic, against such a proposition; such as, "Virtue is its own reward;" "Virtue is a priceless gem;" "The satisfaction of the conscience is the noblest of recompenses;" and, finally, this triumphant and unanswerable objection, "The eternal happiness which awaits the just in another life ought to be sufficient to encourage mankind to do well." To this we reply that society, in order to intimidate and punish the guilty, does not appear to us to rely entirely and exclusively on the divine vengeance, which they tell us will visit them in another world. Society anticipates the last judgment by human judgments. Awaiting the inexorable hour of the archangels in armour, with sounding trumpets and fiery swords, society modestly comforts herself with—gens-d'armes.
We repeat, to terrify the wicked, we materialise, or rather we reduce to human, perceptible, and visible proportions, the anticipated effects of divine wrath. Why should we not do the same with the divine rewards to worthy and virtuous people?
But let us leave these mad, absurd, stupid, impracticable utopianisms, like real utopianisms, as they are. Society is as well as it is. Ask those merry souls, who, with uncertain step, stupid look, and noisy laugh, have just quitted the gay banquet, if it is not.
The inspectress soon entered with Goualeuse into the little room where Clémence was staying. The pale cheek of the young girl was still slightly coloured in consequence of her conversation with La Louve.
"Madame la Marquise, pleased with the excellent character I have given of you," said Madame Armand to Fleur-de-Marie, "has desired to see you, and will, perhaps, be so good as to have you released from here before the expiration of your time."
"I thank you, madame," replied Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, to Madame Armand, who left her alone with the marchioness.
The latter, struck by the candid expression of her protégée's features, and by her carriage, so full of grace and modesty, could not help remembering that La Goualeuse had pronounced the name of Rodolph in her sleep, and that the inspectress believed the youthful prisoner to be a prey to deep and hidden love. Although perfectly convinced that it could not be a question as to the Grand Duke Rodolph, Clémence acknowledged to herself that, with regard to beauty, La Goualeuse was worthy of a prince's love.
At the sight of her protectress, whose physiognomy, as we have said, displayed excessive goodness, Fleur-de-Marie felt herself sympathetically attracted towards her.
"My girl," said Clémence to her, "whilst commending the gentleness of your disposition and the discreetness of your behaviour, Madame Armand complains of your want of confidence in her."
Fleur-de-Marie bowed her look, but did not reply.
"The peasant's dress in which you were clad when you were apprehended, your silence on the subject of the place where you resided before you were brought here, prove that you conceal certain particulars from us."
"Madame—"
"I have no right to your confidence, my poor child, nor would I ask you any question that would distress you; but, as I am assured that if I request your discharge from prison it will be accorded to me, before I do so I should wish to talk to you of your own plans, your resources for the future. Once free, what do you propose to do? If, as I doubt not, you decide on following the good path you have already entered upon, have confidence in me, and I will put you in the way of gaining an honest subsistence."
La Goualeuse was moved to tears at the interest which Madame d'Harville evinced for her. After a moment's hesitation, she replied:
"You are very good, madame, to show so much benevolence towards me,—so generous, that I ought, perhaps, to break the silence which I have hitherto kept on the past, to which I was forced by an oath—"
"An oath?"
"Yes, madame, I have sworn to be secret to justice, and the persons employed in this prison, as to the series of events by which I was brought hither. Yet, madame, if you will make me a promise—"
"Of what nature?"
"To keep my secret. I may, thanks to you, madame, without breaking my oath, comfort most worthy persons who, no doubt, are excessively uneasy on my account."
"Rely on my discretion. I will only say what you authorise me to disclose."
"Oh, thanks, madame! I was so fearful that my silence towards my benefactors would appear like ingratitude!"
The gentle accents of Fleur-de-Marie, and her well-selected phrases, struck Madame d'Harville with fresh surprise.
"I will not conceal from you," said she, "that your demeanour, your language, all surprise me in a remarkable degree. How could you, with an education which appears polished,—how could you—"
"Fall so low, you would say, madame?" said Goualeuse, with bitterness. "Alas! It is but a very short time that I have received this education. I owe this benefit to a generous protector, who, like you, madame, without knowing me, without even having the favourable recommendation which you have received in my favour, took pity upon me—"
"And who is this protector?"
"I do not know, madame."
"You do not know?"
"He only makes himself known, they tell me, by his inexhaustible goodness. Thanks be to Heaven, he found me in his path!"
"And when did you first meet?"
"One night,—in the Cité, madame," said Goualeuse, lowering her eyes, "a man was going to beat me; this unknown benefactor defended me courageously; this was my first meeting with him."
"Then he was one of the people?"
"The first time I saw him he had the dress and language; but afterwards—"
"Afterwards?"
"The way in which he spoke to me, the profound respect with which he was treated by the persons to whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had only assumed the exterior disguise of one of the men who are seen about the Cité."
"But with what motive?"
"I do not know."
"And do you know the name of this mysterious protector?"
"Oh, yes, madame," said La Goualeuse, with excitement; "thank Heaven! For I can incessantly bless and adore that name. My preserver is called M. Rodolph, madame."
Clémence blushed deeply.
"And has he no other name," she asked, quickly, of Fleur-de-Marie.
"I know no other, madame. In the farm, where he sent me, he was only known as M. Rodolph."
"And his age?"
"Still young, madame."
"And handsome?"
"Oh, yes! Handsome,—noble as his own heart."
The grateful and impassioned accent with which Fleur-de-Marie uttered these words caused a deeply painful sensation in Madame d'Harville's bosom. An unconquerable and inexplicable presentiment told her that it was indeed the prince. "The remarks of the inspectress were just," thought Clémence. "Goualeuse loves Rodolph; that was the name which she pronounced in her sleep. Under what strange circumstance had the prince and this unfortunate girl met? Why did Rodolph go disguised into the Cité?"
The marquise could not resolve these questions. She only remembered what Sarah had wickedly and mendaciously told her as to the pretended eccentricities of Rodolph. Was it not, in fact, strange that he should have extricated from the dregs of society a girl of such excessive loveliness, and evidently so intelligent and sensible?
Clémence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, and deeply loved Rodolph, although she had resolved to bury that secret in her heart's very core.
Without reflecting that this was unquestionably but one of those generous actions which the prince was accustomed to do by stealth, without considering that she was, perchance, confounding with love a sentiment that was but excess of gratitude, without considering that, even if this feeling were more tender, Rodolph must be ignorant of it, the marchioness, in the first moment of bitterness and injustice, could not help looking on Goualeuse as her rival. Her pride revolted when she believed she was suffering, in spite of herself, with such a humiliating rivalry; and she replied, in a tone so harsh as to contrast cruelly with the affectionate kindness of her first words:
"And how is it, then, mademoiselle, that your protector leaves you in prison? How comes it that you are here?"
"Oh, madame," said Fleur-de-Marie, struck at this sudden change of tone, "have I done anything to displease you?"
"In what could you have displeased me?" asked Madame d'Harville, haughtily.
"It appeared to me just now that you spoke to me so kindly, madame."
"Really, mademoiselle, is it necessary that I should weigh every word I utter? Since I take an interest in you, I have, I think, a right to ask you certain questions!"
Scarcely had Clémence uttered these words, than she regretted their severity; first from a praiseworthy return of generosity, and then because she thought by being harsh with her rival she might not learn any more of what she was so anxious to know. In fact, Goualeuse's countenance, just now so open and confiding, became suddenly alarmed. Like the sensitive plant, which, on the first touch, curls up its leaves and withdraws within itself, the heart of Fleur-de-Marie became painfully contracted. Clémence replied, gently, in order that she might not awaken her protégée's suspicions by too sudden a return to a milder tone:
"Really I must repeat that I cannot understand why, having so much to praise your benefactor for, you are left here a prisoner. How is it that, after having returned with all sincerity to the paths of rectitude, you could have been apprehended, at night, in a forbidden place? All this, I confess to you, appears to me very extraordinary. You speak of an oath, which has bound you to silence; but this very oath is so strange!"
"I have spoken the truth, madame—"
"I am sure of that; it is only to see and hear you to be convinced that you are incapable of falsehood; but what is so incomprehensible in your situation makes me the more curious and impatient to have it cleared up; and to this alone must you attribute the abruptness of my language just now. I was wrong, I feel I was, for, although I have no claim to your confidence beyond my anxious desire to be of service to you, yet you have offered to disclose to me what you have not yet told to any person; and I can assure you, my poor girl, that this proof of your confidence in the interest I feel for you touches me very nearly. I promise you to keep your secret most scrupulously, if you confide it to me, and I will do everything in my power to effect what you may wish to have done."
Thanks to this skilful patching up (the phrase will be excused, we trust), Madame d'Harville regained La Goualeuse's confidence, which had been for a moment repressed. Fleur-de-Marie, in her candour, reproached herself for having wrongly interpreted the words which had wounded her.
"Excuse me, madame," she said to Clémence; "I was, no doubt, wrong not to tell you at once what you desired to know, but you asked me for the name of my preserver, and, in spite of myself, I could not resist the pleasure of speaking of him."
"Nothing could be more praiseworthy, and it proves how truly grateful you are to him. Tell me how it was that you left the worthy people with whom you were, no doubt, placed by M. Rodolph? Is it to this event that the oath you were compelled to take, refers?"
"Yes, madame; but, thanks to you, I think I may still keep my word faithfully, and, at the same time, inform my benefactors as to my disappearance."
"Now, then, my poor girl, I am all attention to you."
"It is three months nearly since M. Rodolph placed me at a farm, which is situated four or five leagues from Paris—"
"Did M. Rodolph take you there himself?"
"Yes, madame, and confided me to the charge of a worthy lady, as good as she was venerable; and I loved her like my mother. She and the curé of the village, at the request of M. Rodolph, took charge of my education."
"And M.—Rodolph,—did he often come to the farm?"
"No, madame, he only came three times during the whole time I was there."
Clémence's heart throbbed with joy.
"And when he came to see you that made you very happy, did it not?"
"Oh, yes, madame! It was more than happiness to me; it was a feeling mingled with gratitude, respect, adoration, and even a degree of fear."
"Of fear?"
"Between him and me, between him and others, the distance is so great!"
"But what, then, was his rank?"
"I do not know that he had any rank, madame."
"Yet you allude to the distance which exists between him and others."
"Oh, madame, what places him above all the rest of the world is the elevation of his character, his inexhaustible generosity towards those who suffer, the enthusiasm which he inspires in every one. The wicked, even, cannot hear his name without trembling, and respect as much as they dread him! But forgive me, madame, for still speaking of him. I ought to be silent, for I seek to give you an adequate idea of him who ought to be adored in silence. I might as well try to express by words the goodness of Heaven!"
"This comparison—"
"Is, perhaps, sacrilegious, madame; but will it offend the good God to compare to him one who has given me the consciousness of good and evil, one who has snatched me from the abyss, one, in fact, to whom I owe a new existence?"
"I do not blame you, my child; I can understand all your noble exaggerations. But how was it that you abandoned this farm, where you must have been so happy?"
"Alas, not voluntarily, madame!"
"Who, then, forced you away?"
"One evening, some days since," said Fleur-de-Marie, trembling even as she spoke, "I was going towards the parsonage-house in the village, when a wicked woman, who had used me very cruelly during my infancy, and a man, her accomplice, who had concealed themselves in a ravine, threw themselves upon me, and, after having gagged me, carried me off in a hackney-coach."
"For what purpose?"
"I know not, madame. My ravishers, as I think, were acting in conformity to orders from some powerful personages."
"What followed this?"
"Scarcely was the hackney-coach in motion, than the wicked creature, who is called La Chouette, exclaimed, 'I have some vitriol here, and I'll rub La Goualeuse's face, to disfigure her with it!'"
"Oh, horrible! Unhappy girl! And who has saved you from this danger?"
"The woman's confederate, a blind man called the Schoolmaster."
"And he defended you?"
"Yes, madame, this and another time also. On this occasion there was a struggle between him and La Chouette: exerting his strength, the Schoolmaster compelled her to throw out of window the bottle which held the vitriol. This was the first service he rendered me, after having, however, aided in carrying me off. The night was excessively dark. At the end of an hour and a half the coach stopped, as I think, on the highroad which traverses the Plain St. Denis, and here was a man on horseback, evidently awaiting us. 'What!' said he, 'have you got her at last?' 'Yes, we've got her,' answered La Chouette, who was furious because she had been hindered from disfiguring me. 'If you wish to get rid of the little baggage at once, it will be a good plan to stretch her on the ground, and let the coach wheels pass over her skull. It will appear as if she had been accidentally killed.'"
"You make me shudder."
"Alas, madame, La Chouette was quite capable of doing what she said! Fortunately, the man on horseback replied that he would not have any harm done to me, and all he wanted was to have me confined somewhere for two months in a place whence I could neither go out nor be allowed to write to any one. Then La Chouette proposed to take me to a man's called Bras Rouge, who keeps a tavern in the Champs Elysées. In this tavern there are several subterranean chambers, and one of these, La Chouette said, would serve me for a prison. The man on horseback agreed to this proposition; and he promised me that, after remaining two months at Bras Rouge's, I should be properly taken care of, and not be sorry for having quitted the farm at Bouqueval."
"This man gave money to La Chouette, and promised her more when she should bring me from Bras Rouge's, and then galloped away. Our hackney-coach continued its way on to Paris; and a short time before we reached the barrier the Schoolmaster said to La Chouette, 'You want to shut Goualeuse up in one of Bras Rouge's cellars, when you know very well that, being so close to the river's side, these cellars are always under water in the winter! Do you wish to drown her?' 'Yes,' replied La Chouette."
"Poor girl! What had you ever done to this horrid woman?"
"Nothing, madame; and from my very infancy she had always been so full of hatred towards me. The Schoolmaster replied, 'I won't have Goualeuse drowned! She sha'n't go to Bras Rouge's!' La Chouette was as astonished as I was, madame, to hear this man defend me thus, and she flew into a violent rage, and swore she would take me to Bras Rouge's in spite of the Schoolmaster. 'I defy you!' said he, 'for I have got Goualeuse by the arm, and I will not let go my hold of her; and, if you come near her, I'll strangle you!' 'What do you mean, then, to do with her,' cried La Chouette, 'since she must be concealed somewhere for two months, so that no one may know where she is?' 'There's a way,' said the Schoolmaster. 'We are going by the Champs Elysées; we will stop the coach a little way off the guard-house, and you shall go to Bras Rouge's tavern. It is midnight, and you will be sure to find him; bring him here, and he shall lead La Goualeuse to the guard-house, declaring that she is a fille de la Cité, whom he has found loitering about his house. As girls are sentenced to three months' imprisonment if found in the Champs Elysées, and as La Goualeuse is still on the police books, she will be apprehended and sent to St. Lazare, where she will be better taken care of and concealed than in Bras Rouge's cellar.' 'But,' answered La Chouette, 'Goualeuse will not allow herself to be arrested even at the corps-de-garde. She will declare that we have carried her off, and give information against us; and, supposing even that she goes to prison, she will write to her protectors, and all will be discovered.' 'No, she will go to prison willingly,' answered the Schoolmaster; 'and she shall take an oath not to give any information against any person as long as she is in St. Lazare, nor afterwards, either. This is a debt she owes me, for I prevented you from disfiguring her, La Chouette, and saved her from being drowned at Bras Rouge's; but if, after having sworn not to speak, she dares to do so, we will attack the farm at Bouqueval with fire and blood!' Then, addressing me, the Schoolmaster added,'Decide, then: take the oath I demand of you, and you shall get off for three months in prison; if not, I abandon you to La Chouette, who will take you to Bras Rouge's, where you will be drowned, and we will set Bouqueval farm on fire. So, come, decide. I know, if you take the oath, you will keep it.'"
"And you did swear?"
"Alas, yes, madame! I was so fearful they would do my protectors at the farm an injury, and then I so much dreaded being drowned by La Chouette in a cellar, it seemed so frightful to me; another death would have seemed to me less horrid, and, perhaps, I should not have tried to escape it."
"What a dreadful idea at your age!" said Madame d'Harville, looking at La Goualeuse with surprise. "When you have left this place, and have been restored to your benefactors, shall you not be very happy? Has not your repentance effaced the past?"
"Can the past ever be effaced? Can the past ever be forgotten? Can repentance kill memory, madame?" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so despairing that Clémence shuddered.
"But all faults are retrieved, unhappy girl!"
"And the remembrance of stain, madame, does not that become more and more terrible in proportion as the soul becomes purer, in proportion as the mind becomes more elevated? Alas, the higher we ascend, the deeper appears the abyss which we have quitted!"
"Then you renounce all hope of restoration—of pardon?"
"On the part of others—no, madame, your kindness proves to me that remorse will find indulgence."
"But you will be pitiless towards yourself?"
"Others, madame, may not know, pardon, or forget what I have been, but I shall never forget it!"
"And do you sometimes desire to die?"
"Sometimes!" said Goualeuse, smiling bitterly. Then, after a moment's silence, she added, "Sometimes,—yes, madame."
"Still you were afraid of being disfigured by that horrid woman; and so you wish to preserve your beauty, my poor little girl. That proves that life has still some attraction for you; so courage! Courage!"
"It is, perhaps, weakness to think of it, but if I were handsome, as you say, madame, I should like to die handsome, pronouncing the name of my benefactor."
Madame d'Harville's eyes filled with tears. Fleur-de-Marie had said these last words with so much simplicity; her angelic, pale, depressed features, her melancholy smile, were all so much in accord with her words, that it was impossible to doubt the reality of her sad desire. Madame d'Harville was endued with too much delicacy not to feel how miserable, how fatal, was this thought of La Goualeuse: "I shall never forget what I have been!"—the fixed, permanent, incessant idea which controlled and tortured Fleur-de-Marie's life. Clémence, ashamed at having for an instant misconstrued the ever disinterested generosity of the prince, regretted also that she had for a moment allowed herself to be actuated by any feeling of absurd jealousy against La Goualeuse, who, with such pure excitement, expressed her gratitude towards her protector. It was strange that the admiration which this poor prisoner felt so deeply towards Rodolph perhaps increased the profound love which Clémence must for ever conceal from him. She said, to drive away these thoughts:
"I trust that, for the future, you will be less severe towards yourself. But let us talk of this oath, for now I can explain your silence. You will not denounce these wretches?"
"Although the Schoolmaster shared in my carrying off, yet he twice defended me, and I would not be ungrateful towards him."
"Then you lent yourself to the plans of these monsters?"
"Yes, madame, I was so frightened! The Chouette went to seek for Bras Rouge, who conducted me to the guard-house, saying he had found me roving near his cabaret. I did not deny it, and so they took me into custody and brought me here."
"But your friends at the farm must be in the utmost anxiety about you!"