Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “For Heaven’s sake, Marie,” exclaimed Madame Dubreuil, almost petrified with astonishment, “What does this woman allude to? Do you hear what she says?”

  “Are you, or are you not known by the name of the Goualeuse?” said the milk-woman to Marie.

  “Yes,” said the wretched girl, in a low, trembling voice, and without venturing to lift up her eyes towards Madame Dubreuil,— “yes, I am called so.”

  “There you see!” vociferated the enraged labourers. “She owns it! she owns it!”

  “What does she own?” inquired Madame Dubreuil, half frightened at the assent given by Fleur-de-Marie.

  “Leave her to me, madame,” resumed the widow, “and you shall hear her confess that she was living in a house of the most infamous description in the Rue-aux-Fêves in the Cité, and that she every morning purchased a half-pennyworth of milk of me. She cannot deny either having repeatedly spoken in my presence to the murderer of my poor husband. Oh, she knows him well enough, I am quite certain; a pale young man, who smoked a good deal, and always wore a cap and a blouse, and wore his hair very long; she could tell his name if she chose. Is this true, or is it a lie?” vociferously demanded the milk-woman.

  “I may have spoken to the man who killed your husband,” answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice; “for, unhappily, there are more than one in the Cité capable of such a crime. But, indeed, I know not of whom you are speaking!”

  “What does she say?” asked Madame Dubreuil, horror-struck at her words. “She admits having possibly conversed with murderers?”

  “Oh, such lost wretches as she is,” replied the widow, “have no better companions!”

  At first, utterly stupefied by so singular a discovery, confirmed, indeed, by Fleur-de-Marie’s own admission, Madame Dubreuil seemed almost incapable of comprehending the scene before her; but quickly the whole truth presented itself to her mental vision, and shrinking from the unfortunate girl with horror and disgust, she hastily seized her daughter by the dress, as she was about to sustain the sinking form of the poor Goualeuse, and, drawing her towards her with sudden violence, she exclaimed:

  “Clara! For Heaven’s sake approach not that vile, that abandoned young woman! Oh, dreadful, indeed, ever to have admitted her here! But how came Madame Georges to have her under her roof? And how could she so far insult me as to bring her here, and allow my daughter to — This is, indeed, disgraceful! I hardly know whether to trust the evidence of my own senses. But Madame Georges must have been as much imposed on as myself, or she never would have permitted such an indignity! No, no! She is incapable of such dishonourable conduct. It would, indeed, be a disgrace for one female so to have deceived another.”

  Poor Clara, terrified and almost heart-broken at this distressing scene, could scarcely believe herself awake. It seemed as though she were under the influence of a fearful dream. Her innocent and pure mind comprehended not the frightful charges brought against her friend; but she understood enough to fill her with the most poignant grief at the unfortunate position of La Goualeuse, who stood mute, passive and downcast, like a criminal in the presence of the judge.

  “Come, come, my child,” repeated Madame Dubreuil, “let us quit this disgraceful scene.” Then, turning towards Fleur-de-Marie, she said:

  “As for you, worthless girl, the Almighty will punish you as you deserve for your deceit! That my child, good and virtuous as she is, should ever have been allowed to call you sister or friend. Her sister! You — the very vilest of the vile! the outcast of the most depraved and lost wretches! What hardihood, what effrontery you must have possessed, to dare to show your face among good and honest people, when your proper place would have been along with your bad companions in a prison!”

  “Ay, ay!” cried all the labourers at once; “let her be sent off to prison at once. She knows the murderer! Let her be made to declare who and what he is.”

  “She is most likely his accomplice!”

  “You see,” exclaimed the widow, doubling her fist in the face of the Goualeuse, “that my words have come true. Justice will overtake you before you can commit other crimes.”

  “As for you, my good woman,” said Madame Dubreuil to the milk-woman, “far from sending you away I shall reward you for the service you have done me in unmasking this infamous girl’s real character.”

  “There, I told you,” murmured the voices of the labourers, “our mistress always does justice to every one!”

  “Come, Clara,” resumed Madame Dubreuil, “let us retire and seek Madame Georges, that she may clear up her share of this disgraceful business, or she and I never meet again; for either she has herself been most dreadfully deceived, or her conduct towards us is of the very worst description.”

  “But, mother, only look at poor Marie!”

  “Oh, never mind her! Let her die of shame, if she likes, — there will be one wicked, hardened girl less in the world. Treat her with the contempt she deserves. I will not suffer you to remain another instant where she is. It is impossible for a young person like you to notice her in any way without disgracing herself.”

  “My dear mother,” answered Clara, resisting her mother’s attempts to draw her away, “I do not understand what you mean. Marie must be wrong in some way, since you say so! But look, only look at her — she is fainting! Pity her! Oh, mother, let her be ever so guilty, pray take pity on her present distress!”

  “Oh, Mlle. Clara, you are good — very, very good — to pardon me and care for me,” uttered poor Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice, casting a look of unutterable gratitude on her young protectress. “Believe me, it was sorely against my will ever to deceive you; and daily, hourly, have I reproached myself for so doing.”

  “Mother,” exclaimed Clara, in the most piteous tones, “are you then so merciless? Can you not pity her?”

  “Pity!” returned Madame Dubreuil, scornfully. “No, I waste no pity on such as she is. Come, I say! Were it not that I consider it the office of Madame Georges to clear the place of so vile a creature, I would have her spurned from the doors, as though she carried the plague about with her.” So saying, the angry mother seized her daughter’s hand, and, spite of all her struggles, led her away, Clara continually turning back her head, and saying:

  “Marie, my sister, I know not what they accuse you of, but I am quite convinced of your innocence. Be assured of my constant love, whatever they may say or do.”

  “Silence! silence! I command!” cried Madame Dubreuil, placing her hand over her daughter’s mouth. “Speak not another word, I insist! Fortunately, we have plenty of witnesses to testify that, after the odious discovery we have just made, you were not suffered to remain a single instant with this lost and unfortunate young woman. You can all answer for that, can you not, my good people?” continued she, speaking to the assembled labourers.

  “Yes, yes, madame,” replied one of them, “we all know well enough that Mlle. Clara was not allowed to stop with this bad girl a single instant after you found out her wickedness. No doubt she is a thief or she would not be so intimate with murderers.”

  Madame Dubreuil led Clara to the house, while the Goualeuse remained in the midst of the hostile circle which had now formed around her. Spite of the reproaches of Madame Dubreuil, her presence, and that of Clara, had, in some degree, served to allay the fears of Fleur-de-Marie as to the probable termination of the scene. But, after the departure of both mother and daughter, when she found herself so entirely at the mercy of the enraged crowd, her strength seemed to forsake her, and she was obliged to keep herself from falling by leaning on the parapet of the deep watering-place where the farm cattle were accustomed to drink.

  Nothing could be conceived more touching than the attitude of the unfortunate girl, nor could a more threatening appearance have been displayed than was exhibited in the words and looks of the countrymen and women who surrounded her. Seated, or rather supporting herself on the narrow margin of the wall which enclosed the drinking-place, her head hanging down, and co
ncealed by both hands, her neck and bosom hid by the ends of the little red cotton handkerchief which was twisted around her cap, the poor Goualeuse, mute and motionless, presented a most touching picture of grief and resignation.

  At some little distance from Fleur-de-Marie stood the widow of the murdered man. Triumphant in her vindictive rage, and still further excited by the indignation expressed by Madame Dubreuil, she pointed out the wretched object of her wrath to the labourers and her children, with gestures of contempt and detestation. The farm servants, who had now formed into a close circle, sought not to conceal their disgust and thirst for vengeance; their rude countenances expressed at once rage, desire for revenge, and a sort of insulting raillery. The women were even still more bitter, and bent upon mischief. Neither did the striking beauty of the Goualeuse tend to allay their wrath. But neither men nor women could pardon Fleur-de-Marie the heinous offence of having, up to that hour, been treated by their superiors as an equal; and some of the men now present, having been unsuccessful candidates for the vacant situations at Bouqueval, and attributing their failure to Madame Georges, when, in reality, their disappointment arose entirely from their recommendations not being sufficiently satisfactory, determined to avail themselves of the opportunity now before them to wreak their vexation and ill-will on the head of one she was known to protect and love. The impulses of ignorant minds always lead to extremes either of good or bad. But they speedily put on a most dangerous form, when the fury of an enraged multitude is directed against those who may already have awakened their personal anger or aversion.

  Although the greater number of the labourers now collected together might not have been so strictly virtuous and free from moral blame as to be justified in throwing the first stone at the trembling, fainting girl, who was the object of all their concentrated wrath, yet, on the present occasion, they unanimously spoke and acted as though her very presence was capable of contaminating them; and their delicacy and modesty alike revolted at the bare recollection of the depraved class to which she had belonged, and they shuddered to be so near one who confessed to having frequently conversed with assassins. Nothing, then, was wanting to urge on a blind and prejudiced crowd, still further instigated by the example of Madame Dubreuil.

  “Take her before the mayor!” cried one.

  “Ay, ay! and, if she won’t walk, we’ll drag her.”

  “And for her to have the impudence to dress herself like one of us honest girls!” said an awkward, ill-looking farm-wench.

  “I’m sure,” rejoined another female, with her mock-modest air, “one might have thought she would go to heaven, spite of priest or confession!”

  “Why, she had the assurance even to attend mass!”

  “No! Did she? Why did she not join in the communion afterwards then, I should like to know?”

  “And then she must play the young lady, and hold up her head as high as our betters!”

  “As though we were not good company enough for her!”

  “However, every dog has his day!”

  “Oh, I’ll make you find your tongue, and tell who it was took my husband’s life!” vociferated the enraged widow, breaking out into a fresh storm, now she felt her party so strong. “You all belong to one gang; and I’m not sure but I saw you among them at the very time and place when the bloody deed was done! Come, come; don’t stand there shedding your crocodile tears; you are found out, and may as well leave off shamming any more. Show your face, I say! You are a beauty, ain’t you?” And the infuriated woman, suiting the action to the word, violently snatched the two hands of poor Fleur-de-Marie from the pale and grief-worn countenance they concealed, and down which tears were fast streaming.

  The Goualeuse, sinking under a sense of shame, and terrified at finding herself thus at the mercy of her persecutors, joined her hands, and, turning towards the milk-woman her supplicating and timid looks, she said, in a gentle voice:

  “Indeed, indeed, madam, I have been at the farm of Bouqueval these last two months. How could I, then, have been witness to the dreadful misfortune you speak of? And—”

  The faint tones of Fleur-de-Marie’s voice were drowned in the loud uproarious cries of the surrounding multitude.

  “Let us take her before the mayor! She can speak; and she shall, too, to some purpose. March, march, my fine madam! On with you!”

  So saying, the menacing crowd pressed upon the poor girl, who, mechanically crossing her hands on her bosom, looked eagerly around, as though in search of help.

  “Oh,” cried the milk-woman, “you need not stare about in that wild way. Mlle. Clara is not here now to take your part. You don’t slip through my fingers, I promise you!”

  “Alas! madam,” uttered Fleur-de-Marie, trembling violently, “I seek not to escape from you. Be assured, I am both ready and willing to answer all the questions put to me, if I can be of any service to you by so doing. But what harm have I done to these people, who surround and threaten me in this manner?”

  “What have you done?” repeated a number of voices, “why, you have dared to stick yourself up with our betters, when we, who were worth thousands more than such as you, were made to keep our distance, — that’s what you have done!”

  “And what right had you to cause this poor woman to be turned away with her fatherless children?” cried another.

  “Indeed, it was no fault of mine. It was Mlle. Clara, who wished—”

  “That is not true!” interrupted the speaker. “You never even opened your mouth in her favour. No, not you? You were too well pleased to see her bread taken from her.”

  “No, no! no more she did,” chimed in a burst of voices, male and female.

  “She is a regular bad one!”

  “A poor widow-woman, with three helpless children!”

  “If I did not plead for her with Mlle. Clara, it was because I had not power to utter a word.”

  “You could find strength enough to talk to a set of thieves and murderers!”

  And, as is frequently the case in public commotions, the country people, more ignorant than vicious, actually talked themselves into a fury, until their own words and violence excited them to fresh acts of rage and vengeance against their unhappy victim.

  The menacing throng, gesticulating, and loudly threatening, advanced closer and closer towards Fleur-de-Marie, while the widow appeared to have lost all command over herself. Separated from the deep pond only by the parapet on which she was leaning, the Goualeuse shuddered at the idea of their throwing her into the water; and, extending towards them her supplicating hands, she exclaimed:

  “Good, kind people! what do you want with me? For pity’s sake do not harm me!”

  And as the milk-woman, with fierce and angry gestures, kept coming nearer and nearer, holding her clenched fist almost in the face of Fleur-de-Marie, the poor girl, drawing herself back in terror, said, in beseeching tones:

  “Pray, pray, do not press so closely on me, or you will cause me to fall into the water.”

  These words suggested a cruel idea to the rough spectators. Intending merely one of those practical jokes which, however diverting to the projectors, are fraught with serious harm and suffering to the unfortunate object of them, one of the most violent of the number called out, “Let’s give her a plunge in! Duck her! duck her!”

  “Yes, yes!” chimed several voices, accompanied with brutal laughter, and noisy clapping of hands, with other tokens of unanimous approval. “Throw her in! — in with her!”

  “A good dip will do her good! Water won’t kill her!”

  “That will teach her not to show her face among honest people again!”

  “To be sure. Toss her in! — fling her over!”

  “Fortunately, the ice was broken this morning!”

  “And when she has had her bath she may go and tell her street companions how the folks at Arnouville farm serve such vile girls as she is!”

  As these unfeeling speeches reached her ear, as she heard their barbarous jokes, and observ
ed the exasperated looks of the brutally excited individuals who approached her to carry their threat into execution, Fleur-de-Marie gave herself over for lost. But to her first horror of a violent death succeeded a sort of gloomy satisfaction. The future wore so threatening and hopeless an aspect for her that she thanked heaven for shortening her trial. Not another complaining word escaped her; but gently falling on her knees, and piously folding her hands upon her breast, she closed her eyes, and meekly resigned herself to her fate.

  The labourers, surprised at the attitude and mute resignation of the Goualeuse, hesitated a moment in the accomplishment of their savage design; but, rallied on their folly and irresolution by the female part of the assemblage, they recommenced their uproarious cries, as though to inspire themselves with the necessary courage to complete their wicked purpose.

  Just as two of the most furious of the party were about to seize on Fleur-de-Marie a loud, thrilling voice was heard, exclaiming:

  “Stop! I command you!”

  And at the very instant Madame Georges, who had forced a passage through the crowd, reached the still kneeling Goualeuse, took her in her arms, and, raising her, cried:

  “Rise up, my child! Stand up, my beloved daughter! the knee should be bent to God alone!”

  The expression and attitude of Madame Georges were so full of courageous firmness that the actors in this cruel scene shrunk back speechless and confounded. Indignation coloured her usually pale features, and casting on the labourers a stern look she said to them, in a loud and threatening voice:

  “Wretches! Are you not ashamed of such brutal conduct to a helpless girl like this?”

  “She is—”

  “My daughter!” exclaimed Madame Georges, with severity, and abruptly interrupting the man who was about to speak, “and, as such, both cherished and protected by our worthy curé, M. l’Abbé Laporte, whom every one venerates and loves; and those whom he loves and esteems ought to be respected by every one!”