by Eugène Sue
“Oh, scarcely at all! In the principal apartment there is a straw matting on the centre of the floor; a sofa, and a few arm-chairs composed of rushes, a table, and some chairs, comprise all the inventory, which, I think you will allow, falls far short of the word comfortable.”
“Well, I tell you what I should do in your place. Let me see; it is eleven o’clock. I should send a person on whom you can depend to Paris.”
“Our overseer! There cannot be a more active, intelligent person.”
A species of overseer employed in most of the large farming establishments in the environs of Paris.
“Exactly! just the right sort of messenger. Well, in two hours at the utmost, he may be in Paris. Let him go to some upholsterer in the Chaussée d’Antin — never mind which — and give him the list I will draw out, after I have seen what is wanting for the pavilion; and let him be directed to say that, let the expense be what it may—”
“I don’t care about expense, if I can but satisfy the duchess.”
“The upholsterer, then, must be told that, at any cost, he must see that every article named in the list be sent here either this evening or before daybreak to-morrow, with three or four of his most clever and active workmen to arrange them as quickly as possible.”
“They might come by the Gonesse diligence, which leaves Paris at eight o’clock every evening.”
“And as they would only have to place the furniture, lay down carpets, and put up curtains, all that could easily be done by to-morrow evening.”
“Oh, my dear Madame Georges, what a load you have taken off my mind! I should never have thought of this simple yet proper manner of proceeding. You are the saving of me! Now, may I ask you to be so kind as to draw me out the list of articles necessary to render the pavilion — what is that hard word? I never can recollect it.”
“Comfortable! Yes, I will at once set about it, and with pleasure.”
“Dear me! here is another difficulty. Don’t you see we are not told whether to expect a lady or a gentleman? Madame de Lucenay, in her letter, only says ‘a person.’ It is very perplexing, isn’t it?”
“Then make your preparations as if for a lady, my dear Madame Dubreuil; and, should it turn out a gentleman, why he will only have better reason to be pleased with his accommodations.”
“Quite right; right again, as you always are.”
A servant here announced that breakfast was ready.
“Let breakfast wait a little,” said Madame Georges. “And, while I draw out the necessary list, send some person you can depend upon to take the exact height and width of the three rooms, that the curtains and carpets may more easily be prepared.”
“Thank you. I will set our overseer to work out this commission.”
“Madame,” continued the servant, speaking to her mistress, “the new dairy-woman from Stains is here with her few goods in a small cart drawn by a donkey. The beast has not a heavy load to complain of, for the poor body’s luggage seems but very trifling.”
“Poor woman!” said Madame Dubreuil, kindly.
“What woman is it?” inquired Madame Georges.
“A poor creature from Stains, who once had four cows of her own, and used to go every morning to Paris to sell her milk. Her husband was a blacksmith, and one day accompanied her to Paris to purchase some iron he required for his work, agreeing to rejoin her at the corner of the street where she was accustomed to sell her milk. Unhappily, as it afterwards turned out, the poor woman had selected a very bad part of Paris; for, when her husband returned, he found her in the midst of a set of wicked, drunken fellows, who had, for mere mischief’s sake, upset all her milk into the gutter. The poor blacksmith tried to reason with them upon the score of their unfair conduct, but that only made matters worse; they all fell on the husband, who sought in vain to defend himself from their violence. The end of the story is, that, in the scuffle which ensued, the man received a stab with a knife, which stretched him a corpse before the eyes of his distracted wife.”
“Dreadful, indeed!” ejaculated Madame Georges. “But, at least, the murderer was apprehended?”
“Alas, no! He managed to make his escape during the confusion which ensued, though the unfortunate widow asserts she should recognise him at any minute she might meet him, having repeatedly seen him in company with his associates, inhabitants of that neighbourhood. However, up to the present hour all attempts to discover him have been useless. But, to end my tale, I must tell you that, in consequence of the death of her husband, the poor widow was compelled, in order to pay various debts he had contracted, to sell not only her cows but some little land he possessed. The bailiff of the château at Stains recommended the poor creature to me as a most excellent and honest woman, as deserving as she was unfortunate, having three children to provide for, the eldest not yet twelve years of age. I happened, just then, to be in want of a first-rate dairy-woman, therefore offered her the place, which she gladly accepted, and she has now come to take up her abode on the farm.”
“This act of real kindness on your part, my dear Madame Dubreuil, does not surprise me, knowing you as well as I do.”
“Here, Clara,” said Madame Dubreuil, as though seeking to escape from the praises of her friend, “will you go and show this good woman the way to the lodge she is to occupy, while I hasten to explain to our overseer the necessity for his immediate departure for Paris?”
“Willingly, dear mother! Marie can come with me, can she not?”
“Of course,” answered Madame Dubreuil, “if she pleases.” Then added, smilingly, “I wonder whether you two girls could do one without the other!”
“And now,” said Madame Georges, seating herself before a table, “I will at once begin my part of the business, that no time may be lost; for we must positively return to Bouqueval at four o’clock.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Madame Dubreuil; “how early! Why, what makes you in such a hurry?”
“Marie is obliged to be at the rectory by five o’clock.”
“Oh, if her return relates to that good Abbé Laporte, I am sure it is a sacred duty with which I would not interfere for the world. Well, then, I will go and give the necessary orders for everything being punctual to that hour. Those two girls have so much to say to each other that we must give them as much time as we can.”
“Then we shall leave you at three o’clock, my dear Madame Dubreuil?”
“Yes; I promise not to detain you since you so positively wish it. But pray let me thank you again and again for coming. What a good thing it was I thought of sending to ask your kind assistance,” rejoined Madame Dubreuil. “Now then, Clara and Marie, off with you!”
As Madame Georges settled herself to her writing, Madame Dubreuil quitted the room by a door on one side, while the young friends, in company with the servant who had announced the arrival of the milkwoman from Stains, went out by the opposite side.
“Where is the poor woman?” inquired Clara.
“There she is, mademoiselle, in the courtyard, near the barns, with her children and her little donkey-cart.”
“You shall see her, dear Marie,” said Clara, taking the arm of la Goualeuse. “Poor woman! she looks so pale and sad in her deep widow’s mourning. The last time she came here to arrange with my mother about the place she made my heart ache. She wept bitterly as she spoke of her husband; then suddenly burst into a fit of rage as she mentioned his murderer. Really, she quite frightened me, she looked so desperate and full of fury. But, after all, her resentment was natural. Poor thing! I am sure I pity her; some people are very unfortunate, are they not, Marie?”
“Alas, yes, they are, indeed!” replied the Goualeuse, sighing deeply. “There are some persons who appear born only to trouble and sorrow, as you justly observe, Miss Clara.”
“This is really very unkind of you, Marie,” said Clara, colouring with impatience and displeasure. “This is the second time to-day you have called me ‘Miss Clara.’ What can I have possibly done to offend you? For
I am sure you must be angry with me, or you would not do what you know vexes me so very much.”
“How is it possible that you could ever offend me?”
“Then why do you say ‘miss?’ You know very well that both Madame Georges and my mother have scolded you for doing it. And I give you due warning, if ever you repeat this great offence, I will have you well scolded again. Now then, will you be good or not? Speak!”
“Dear Clara, pray pardon me! Indeed, I was not thinking when I spoke.”
“Not thinking!” repeated Clara, sorrowfully. “What, after eight long days’ absence you cannot give me your attention even for five minutes? Not thinking! That would be bad enough; but that is not it, Marie. And I tell you what, it is my belief you are too proud to own so humble a friend as myself.”
Fleur-de-Marie made no answer, but her whole countenance assumed the pallor of death.
A woman, dressed as a widow, and in deep mourning, had just caught sight of her, and uttered a cry of rage and horror which seemed to freeze the poor girl’s blood. This woman was the person who supplied the Goualeuse with her daily milk, during the time the latter dwelt with the ogress at the tapis-franc.
The scene which ensued took place in one of the yards belonging to the farm, in the presence of all the labourers, both male and female, who chanced just then to be returning to the house to take their mid-day meal. Beneath a shed stood a small cart, drawn by a donkey, and containing the few household possessions of the widow; a boy of about twelve years of age, aided by two younger children, was beginning to unload the vehicle. The milk-woman herself was a woman of about forty years of age, her countenance coarse, masculine, and expressive of great resolution. She was, as we before stated, attired in the deepest mourning, and her eyelids looked red and inflamed with recent weeping. Her first impulse at the sight of the Goualeuse had been terror; but quickly did that feeling change into grief and rage, while the most violent anger contracted her features. Rapidly darting towards the unhappy girl, she seized her by the arm, and, presenting her to the gaze of the farm servants, she exclaimed:
“Here is a creature who is acquainted with the assassin of my poor husband! I have seen her more than twenty times speaking to the ruffian when I was selling my milk at the corner of the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie; she used to come to buy a ha’porth every morning. She knows well enough who it was struck the blow that made me a widow, and my poor children fatherless. ‘Birds of a feather flock together,’ and such loose characters as she is are sure to be linked in with thieves and murderers. Oh, you shall not escape me, you abandoned wretch!” cried the milk-woman, who had now lashed herself into a perfect fury, and who, seeing poor Fleur-de-Marie confused and terror-stricken at this sudden attack, endeavouring to escape from it by flight, grasped her fiercely by the other arm also. Clara, almost speechless with surprise and alarm at this outrageous conduct, had been quite incapable of interfering; but this increased violence on the part of the widow seemed to restore her to herself, and angrily addressing the woman she said:
“What is the meaning of this improper behaviour? Are you out of your senses? Has grief turned your brain? Good woman, I pity you! But let us pass on; you are mistaken.”
“Mistaken!” repeated the woman, with a bitter smile. “Me mistaken! No, no, there is no mistake! Just look at her pale, guilty looks! Hark how her very teeth rattle in her head! Ah, she knows well enough there is no mistake! Ah, you may hold your wicked tongue if you like, but justice will find a way to make you speak. You shall go with me before the mayor; do you hear? Oh, it is not worth while resisting! I have good strong wrists; I can hold you. And sooner than you should escape I would carry you every step of the way.”
“You good-for-nothing, insolent woman! How dare you presume to speak in this way to my dear friend and sister?”
“Your sister, Mlle. Clara! Believe me, it is you who are deceived — it is you who have lost your senses,” bawled the enraged milk-woman, in a loud, coarse voice. “Your sister! A likely story a girl out of the streets, who was the companion of the very lowest wretches in the worst part of the Cité, should be a sister of yours!”
At these words the assembled labourers, who naturally enough took that part in the affair which concerned a person of their own class, and who really sympathised with the bereaved milk-woman, gave utterance to deep, threatening words, in which the name of Fleur-de-Marie was angrily mingled. The three children, hearing their mother speaking in a loud tone, and fearing they knew not what, ran to her, and, clinging to her dress, burst out into a loud fit of weeping. The sight of these poor little fatherless things, dressed also in deep mourning, increased the pity of the spectators for the unfortunate widow, while it redoubled their indignation against Fleur-de-Marie; while Clara, completely frightened by these demonstrations of approaching violence, exclaimed, in an agitated tone, to a group of farm labourers:
“Take this woman off the premises directly! Do you not perceive grief has driven her out of her senses? Marie! dear Marie! never mind what she says. She is mad, poor creature, and knows not what she does!”
The poor Goualeuse, pale, exhausted, and almost fainting, made no effort to escape from the powerful grasp of the incensed milk-woman; she hung her head, as though unable or unwilling to meet the gaze of friend or foe. Clara, attributing her condition to the terror excited by so alarming a scene, renewed her commands to the labourers, “Did you not hear me desire that this mad woman might be instantly taken away from the farm? However, unless she immediately ceases her rude and insolent language, I can promise her, by way of punishment, she shall neither have the situation my mother promised her nor ever be suffered to put her foot on the premises again.”
Not a person stirred to obey Clara’s orders; on the contrary, one of the boldest among the party exclaimed:
“Well, but, Miss Clara, if your friend there is only a common girl out of the streets, and, as such, acquainted with the murderer of this poor woman’s husband, surely she ought to go before the mayor to give an account of herself and her bad companions!”
“I tell you,” repeated Clara, with indignant warmth, and addressing the milk-woman, “you shall never enter this farm again unless you this very instant, and before all these people, humbly beg pardon of Mlle. Marie for all the wicked things you have been saying about her!”
“You turn me off the premises then, mademoiselle, do you?” retorted the widow with bitterness. “Well, so be it. Come, my poor children, let us put the things back in the cart, and go and seek our bread elsewhere. God will take care of us. But, at least, when we go, we will take this abandoned young woman with us. She shall be made to tell the mayor, if she won’t us, who it was that took away your dear father’s life; for she knows well enough — she who was the daily companion of the worst set of ruffians who infest Paris. And you, miss,” added she, looking spitefully and insolently at Clara, “you should not, because you choose to make friends with low girls out of the streets, and because you happen to be rich, be quite so hard-hearted and unfeeling to poor creatures like me!”
“No more she ought,” exclaimed one of the labourers; “the poor woman is right!”
“Of course she is, — she is only standing up for her own!”
“Poor thing, she has no one now to do so for her! Why, they have murdered her husband among them! I should think that might content them, without trampling the poor woman under foot.”
“One comfort is, nobody can stop her from doing all in her power to bring the murderers of her husband to justice.”
“It is a shame to send her away in this manner, like a dog!”
“Can she help it, poor creature, if Miss Clara thinks proper to take up with common girls and thieves, and make them her companions?”
“Infamous to turn an honest woman, a poor widow with helpless children, into the streets for such a base girl as that!”
These different speeches, uttered nearly simultaneously by the surrounding crowd, were rapidly assuming a most hostile
and threatening tone, when Clara joyfully exclaimed:
“Thank God, here comes my mother!”
It was, indeed, Madame Dubreuil, who was crossing the courtyard on her return from the pavilion.
“Now, then, my children,” said Madame Dubreuil, gaily approaching the assembled group, “will you come in to breakfast? I declare it is quite late! I dare say you are both hungry? Come, Marie! — Clara!”
“Mother,” cried Clara, pointing to the widow, “you are fortunately just in time to save my dear sister Marie from the insults and violence of that woman. Oh, pray order her away instantly! If you only knew what she had the audacity to say to Marie!”
“Impossible, Clara!”
“Nay, but, dear mother, only look at my poor dear sister! See how she trembles! She can scarcely support herself. Oh, it is a shame and disgrace such conduct should ever have been offered to a guest of ours! My dear, dear friend — Marie, dear! — look up, and say you are not angry with us. Pray tell me you will try and forget it!”
“What is the meaning of all this?” inquired Madame Dubreuil, looking around her with a disturbed and uneasy look, after having observed the despairing agony of the Goualeuse.
“Ah, now we shall have justice done the poor widow woman!” murmured the labourers. “Madame will see her righted, no doubt about it!”
“Now, then,” exclaimed the milk-woman, exultingly, “here is Madame Dubreuil. Now, my fine miss,” continued she, addressing Fleur-de-Marie, “you will have your turn of being turned out-of-doors!”
“Is it true, then,” cried Madame Dubreuil, addressing the widow, who still kept firm hold of Fleur-de-Marie’s arm, “that you have dared to insult my daughter’s friend, as she asserts? Is this the way you show your gratitude for all I have done to serve you? Will you leave that young lady alone?”
“Yes, madame,” replied the woman, relinquishing her grasp of Fleur-de-Marie, “at your bidding I will; for I respect you too much to disobey you. And, besides, I owe you much gratitude for all your kindness to a poor, friendless creature like myself. But, before you blame me, and drive me off the premises with my poor children, just question that wretched creature that has caused all this confusion what she knows of me. I know a pretty deal more of her than is to her credit!”