by Eugène Sue
“Tonnerre, M. Rodolph!” said the Chourineur, taking off his upper coat with haste, and turning up his shirtsleeves, which displayed a pair of arms like a prize-fighter’s; “this reminds me of my boyish days and the slaughter-house. You shall see how I handle a knife! Nom de nom! I wish I was at it. The knife, lad! the knife! That’s it; I see you know your trade. This is a blade! Who will have it? Tonnerre! with a tool like this I could face a wild bull.”
And the Chourineur brandished his knife, — his eyes began to fill with blood; the beast was regaining the mastery; the instinct and thirst for blood reappeared in all the fullness of their fearful predominance.
The butchery was in the yard, — a vaulted, dark place, paved with stones, and lighted by a small, narrow opening at the top.
The man drove one of the sheep to the door.
“Shall I fasten him to the ring, master?”
“Fasten him! Tonnerre! and I with my knees at liberty? Oh, no; I will hold him here as fast as if in a vice. Give me the beast, and go back to the shop.”
The journeyman obeyed. Rodolph was left alone with the Chourineur, and watched him attentively, almost anxiously.
“Now, then, to work!” said he.
“Oh, I sha’n’t be long. Tonnerre! you shall see how I handle a knife! My hands burn, and I have a singing in my ears; my temples beat, as they used when I was going to ‘see red.’ Come here, thou — Ah, Madelon! let me stab you dead!”
Then his eyes sparkled with a fierce delight, and, no longer conscious of the presence of Rodolph, the Chourineur lifted the sheep without an effort; with one spring he carried it off as a wolf would do, bounding towards his lair with his prey.
Rodolph followed him, and leaned on one of the wings of the door, which he closed. The butchery was dark; one strong ray of light, falling straight down, lighted up, à la Rembrandt, the rugged features of the Chourineur, his light hair, and his red whiskers. Stooping low, holding in his teeth a long knife, which glittered in the “darkness visible,” he drew the sheep between his legs, and, when he had adjusted it, took it by the head, stretched out its neck, and cut its throat.
At the instant when the sheep felt the keen blade, it gave one gentle, low, and pitiful bleat, and, raising its dying eyes to the Chourineur, two spurts of blood jetted forth into the face of its slayer. The cry, the look, the blood that spouted out, made a fearful impression on the man. His knife fell from his hands; his features grew livid, contracted, and horrible, beneath the blood that covered them; his eyes expanded, his hair stiffened; and then retreating, with a gesture of horror, he cried, in a suffocating voice, “Oh, the sergeant! the sergeant!”
Rodolph hastened to him: “Recover yourself, my good fellow!”
“There! there! the sergeant!” repeated the Chourineur, retreating step by step, with his eyes fixed and haggard, and pointing with his finger as if at some invisible phantom. Then uttering a fearful cry, as if the spectre had touched him, he rushed to the bottom of the butchery, into the darkest corner; and there, with his face, breast, and arms against the wall, as if he would break through it to escape from so horrible a vision, he repeated, in a hollow and convulsive tone, “Oh, the sergeant! the sergeant! the sergeant!”
CHAPTER XX.
THE DEPARTURE.
THANKS TO THE care of Murphy and Rodolph, who with difficulty calmed his agitation, the Chourineur was completely restored to himself, and was alone with the prince in one of the rooms on the first floor in the house.
“My lord,” said he, despondingly, “you have been very kind, indeed, to me; but, hear me: I would rather be a thousand times more wretched than I have yet been than become a butcher.”
“Yet reflect a little.”
“Why, my lord, when I heard the cry of the poor animal which could not make the slightest resistance; when I felt its blood spring into my face, — hot blood, which seemed as coming from a living thing; you cannot imagine what I felt; then I had my dream all over again, — the sergeant and those poor young fellows whom I cut and stabbed, who made no defence, and died giving me a look so gentle, so gentle that they seemed as if they pitied me! My lord, it would drive me mad!”
And the poor fellow hid his face in his hands with a convulsive start.
“Come, come, calm yourself.”
“Excuse me, my lord; but just now the sight of blood — of a knife — I could not bear; at every instant it would renew those dreams which I was beginning to forget. To have every day my hands and feet in blood, to cut the throats of poor animals who do not so much as make a struggle — oh, no, no! I could not for the world. I would rather lose my eyesight at once, like the Schoolmaster, than be compelled to follow such a business.”
It is impossible to depict the energetic gesture, action, and countenance of the Chourineur, as he thus expressed himself. Rodolph was deeply affected by it, and satisfied with the horrible effect which the sight of the blood had caused to his protégé.
For a moment the savage feeling, the bloodthirsty instinct, had overcome the human being in the Chourineur; but remorse eventually overwhelmed the instinct. That was as it should be, and it was a fine lesson.
“Forgive me, my lord,” said the Chourineur, in a faltering voice; “I make but a bad recompense for all your kindness to me, but—”
“Not at all, my good fellow; I told you that our bargain was conditional. I selected for you the business of a butcher, because your inclinations and taste seemed to lie in that direction—”
“Alas! my lord, that’s true; and, had it not been for what you know of, that would have been the trade of all others I should have chosen. I was only saying so to M. Murphy a little while since.”
“As it was just possible that your taste did not lie that way, I have thought of another arrangement for you. A person who has a large tract of property at Algiers will give me up, for you, one of the extensive farms he holds in that country. The lands belonging to it are very fertile, and in full bearing; but I will not conceal from you, this estate is situated on the boundaries of the Atlas mountains, — that is, near the outposts, and exposed to the frequent attacks of the Arabs, and one must be as much of a soldier as a husbandman: it is, at the same time, a redoubt and a farm. The man who occupies this dwelling in the absence of the proprietor will explain everything to you; they say he is honest and faithful, and you may retain him there as long as you like. Once established there, you will not only increase your means by your labour and ability, but render a real service to your country by your courage. The colonists have formed a militia, and the extent of your property, the number of your tenants who will depend on you, will make you the chief of a very considerable troop. Headed by your courage, this band may be extremely useful in protecting the properties which are throughout the plain. I repeat to you, that this prospect for you would please me very much, in spite of, or, rather, in consequence of the danger; because you could at the same time display your natural intrepidity; and because, having thus expiated, and, as I may say, ransomed yourself from a great crime, your restitution to society would be more noble, more complete, more heroic, if it were worked out, in the midst of perils in an unconquered clime, than in the midst of the quiet inhabitants of a little town. If I did not first offer you this, it was because it was probable that the other would suit you, and the latter is so hazardous that I would not expose you to it without giving you the choice. There is still time, and, if this proposition for Algiers does not suit you, tell me so frankly, and we will look out for something else; if not, to-morrow everything shall be signed, and you will start for Algiers with a person commissioned by the former proprietor of the farm to put you in full possession. Two years’ rent will be due, and paid to you on your arrival. The land yields three thousand francs a year: work, improve it, be active, vigilant, and you will soon increase your comfort and the security of the colonists, whom you will aid and assist I am sure, for you will always be charitable and generous; and remember, too, to be rich implies that we should give much
away. Although separated from you, I shall not lose sight of you, and never forget that I and my best friend owe our lives to you. The only proof of attachment and gratitude I ask, is to learn to write and read as quickly as you can, that you may inform me regularly, once a week, what you do, and to address yourself to me direct if you need any advice or assistance.”
It is useless to describe the extreme delight of the Chourineur. His disposition, his instincts, are already sufficiently known to the reader, so that he may understand that no proposal could have been made more acceptable to him.
Next day all was arranged, and the Chourineur set out for Algiers.
CHAPTER XXI.
RESEARCHES.
THE HOUSE WHICH Rodolph had in the Allée des Veuves was not his usual place of residence; he lived in one of the largest mansions in the Faubourg St. Germain, situated at the end of the Rue Plumet and the Boulevard des Invalides.
To avoid the honours due to his sovereign rank, the prince had preserved his incognito since his arrival in Paris, his chargé d’affaires at the court of France having announced that his master would pay his official and indispensable visits under the name and title of the Count de Duren. Thanks to this usage (a very common one in the Northern courts), a prince may travel with as much liberty as pleasure, and escape all the bore of ceremonious introductions. In spite of his slight incognito, Rodolph kept up in his mansion full state and etiquette. We will introduce the reader into the hôtel of the Rue Plumet, the day after the Chourineur had started for Algiers.
The clock had just struck ten, A.M. In the middle of a large salon on the ground floor and which formed the antechamber to Rodolph’s business chamber, Murphy was seated before a bureau, and sealing several despatches. A groom of the chambers, dressed in black and wearing a silver chain around his neck, opened the folding-doors and announced:
“His Excellency M. le Baron de Graün.”
Murphy, without ceasing from his employment, received the baron with a nod at once cordial and familiar.
“M. le Chargé d’Affaires,” said he, smiling, “will you warm yourself at the fire? I will be at your service in one moment.”
“M. the Private Secretary, I await your leisure,” replied M. de Graün, gaily, and making, with mock respect, a low and respectful bow to the worthy squire.
The baron was about fifty years of age, with hair gray, thin, and lightly curled and powdered. His chin, rather projecting, was partly concealed in a high cravat of white muslin, starched very stiffly, and of unimpeachable whiteness. His countenance was expressive of great intelligence, and his carriage was distingué; whilst beneath his gold spectacles there beamed an eye as shrewd as it was penetrating. Although it was only ten o’clock in the morning, M. de Graün wore a black coat, — that was etiquette, — and a riband, shot with several bright colours, was suspended from his buttonhole. He placed his hat on a chair and took his station near the fireplace, whilst Murphy continued his work.
“His royal highness, no doubt, was up the best part of the night, my dear Murphy, for your correspondence appears considerable?”
“Monseigneur went to bed at six o’clock this morning. He wrote, amongst other letters, one of eight pages to the Grand Marshal, and dictated to me one equally long to the Chief of the Upper Council, the Prince Herkhaüsen-Oldenzaal, his royal highness’s cousin.”
“You know that his son, Prince Henry, has entered as lieutenant in the guards in the service of his Majesty the Emperor of Austria?”
“Yes; monseigneur recommended him most warmly as his relation; and he really is a fine, excellent young man, handsome as an angel, and as good as gold.”
“The fact is, my dear Murphy, that if the young Prince Henry had had his entrée to the grand ducal abbey of Ste. Hermenegilde, of which his aunt is the superior, the poor nuns—”
“Baron! baron! why—”
“My dear sir, the air of Paris — But let us talk seriously. Shall I await the rising of his royal highness to communicate all the particulars which I have procured?”
“No, my dear baron. Monseigneur has desired that he should not be called before two or three o’clock in the afternoon; he desires, also, that you send off this morning these despatches by a special courier, instead of waiting till Monday. You will entrust me with all the particulars you have acquired, and I will communicate them to monseigneur when he wakes. These are his orders.”
“Nothing can be better, and I think his royal highness will be satisfied with what I have collected. But, my dear Murphy, I hope the despatch of the special courier is not a bad sign; the last despatches which I had the honour of sending to his royal highness—”
“Announced that all was going on well at home; and it is precisely because my lord is desirous of expressing as early as possible his entire satisfaction, that he wishes a courier to be despatched this very day to Prince Herkhaüsen-Oldenzaal, Chief of the Supreme Council.”
“That is so like his royal highness; were it to blame instead of commend, he would observe less haste.”
“Nothing new has transpired with us, my dear baron, — nothing at all. Our mysterious adventures—”
“Are wholly unknown. You know that, since the arrival of his royal highness in Paris, his friends have become used to see him but little in public; it is understood that he prefers seclusion, and is in the habit of making frequent excursions to the environs of Paris, and, with the exception of the Countess Sarah Macgregor and her brother, no person is aware of the disguises assumed by his royal highness; and neither of the personages I have mentioned have the smallest interest in betraying the secret.”
“Ah! my dear baron,” exclaimed Murphy, heaving a deep sigh, “what an unfortunate thing it is that this accursed countess should be left a widow at this very important moment!”
“She was married, I think, in 1827 or 1828?”
“In 1827, shortly after the death of the unfortunate child, who would now be in her sixteenth or seventeenth year, and whose loss his royal highness seems daily more to deplore.”
“Far more so, indeed, than he appears to feel for the loss of his legitimate offspring.”
“And thus, my dear baron, we may account for the deep interest his royal highness takes in the poor Goualeuse, arising as it does from the fact that the daughter so deeply deplored would, had she lived, have been precisely the same age as this unfortunate young creature.”
“It is, indeed, an unfortunate affair that the Countess Sarah, from whom we fancied we were for ever freed, should have become a widow exactly eighteen months after his royal highness had been deprived by death of the wife with whom he had passed years of wedded happiness. The countess, I am persuaded, looks upon this double freedom from all marriage vows as a signal intervention of Providence to further her views.”
“And her impetuous passion has become more ardent than ever, though she is well aware that my lord feels for her the deepest aversion and well-merited contempt. Was not her culpable indifference the cause of her child’s death? Did she not cause — Ah, baron,” said Murphy, leaving the sentence unfinished, “this woman is our evil genius. God grant she may not reappear amongst us laden with fresh misfortunes!”
“But still, under present circumstances, any views Countess Sarah may entertain must be absurd in the greatest degree; the death of the unfortunate child you just now alluded to has broken the last tie which might have attached my lord to this dangerous woman. She must be mad, as well as foolish, to persist in so hopeless a pursuit.”
“If she be mad, there is a dangerous ‘method in her madness;’ her brother, you are aware, partakes of her ambitious schemes and obstinate opinions of ultimate success. Although this worthy pair have as much reason for utter despair as they had eighteen years since of entire success—”
“Eighteen years! What an accumulation of evil has been wrought during that period by the criminal compliance of that rascally Polidori!”
“By the way, talking of that miserable wretch, I have traced t
hat he was here about a year or two ago, suffering, no doubt, from the most perfect destitution, or else subsisting by disgraceful and dishonourable practices.”
“What a pity that a man so largely endowed with penetration, talent, deep learning, and natural intelligence, should sink so low!”
“The innate perversity of his character marred all these high qualities. It is to be hoped he and the countess will not meet; the junction of two such evil spirits is indeed to be feared, for what frightful consequences might there not result from it! Now, touching the facts you have been collecting, have you them about you?”
“Here,” said the baron, drawing a paper from his pocket, “are the various particulars I have been enabled to collect touching the birth of a young girl known as La Goualeuse, and also of the now residence of an individual called François Germain, son of the Schoolmaster.”
“Be kind enough to read me the result of your inquiries, my dear De Graün. I am well aware what are his royal highness’s intentions in the matter; I shall be able to judge then whether the information you possess will be sufficient to enable him to carry them into effect. You have every reason to be satisfied with the agent you employ, I suppose?”
“Oh, he is a rare fellow! so precise, methodical, zealous, and intelligent! I am, indeed, sometimes obliged to moderate his energy; for I am well aware there are certain points, the clearing up of which his highness reserves for himself.”
“And, of course, your agent is far from suspecting the deep interest his royal highness has in the matter?”
“Entirely so. My diplomatic position affords an excellent pretext for the inquiries I have undertaken. M. Badinot (for such is the name of the person I am speaking of) is a sharp, shrewd individual, having connections, either recognised or concealed, in every grade of society. He was formerly a lawyer, but compelled to quit his profession from some very serious breach of trust; he has, however, retained very accurate recollections touching the fortunes and situations of his old clients; he knows many a secret, which he boasts, with considerable effrontery, of having turned to a good account. By turns, rich and poor, — now successful, and then a ruined man, — he only ceased his speculations when none could be found to take part in them with him; reduced to live from day to day by expedients more or less illegal, he became a curious specimen of the Figaro school, — so long as his interest was concerned he would devote himself, soul and body, to his employer; and we are sure of his fidelity, for the simple reason that he has nothing to gain, though a great deal to lose, by deceiving us; and, besides, I make him careful of our interests, even unknown to himself.”