Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “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 g
uileless 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 k
new 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:

  “J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière; J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.”

  “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, —