by Eugène Sue
“But that would be downright perfidy to one’s husband, would it not, my lord?” said Madame d’Harville, smiling.
“Fortunately for you, madame, you have never been driven to the necessity of admitting the utility of such provisionary measures.”
Madame d’Harville’s smile left her lips. She cast down her eyes, and, blushing deeply, said, in a low and sad voice, “This is not generous, my lord!”
At first Rodolph regarded the marquise with astonishment, then added, “I understand you, madame. But, once for all, let us weigh well your position as regards M. Charles Robert. I will just imagine that one of your acquaintances may one day have pointed out to you one of those pitiable-looking mendicants who roll their eyes most sentimentally, and play on the clarionet with desperate energy, to awaken the sympathy of the passers-by. ‘That is really and truly a genuine case of distress,’ observes your friend. ‘That interesting musician has at least seven children, and a wife deaf, dumb, blind,’ etc. ‘Ah, poor fellow!’ you reply, charitably aiding him with your purse. And so, each time you meet this case of genuine distress, the clarionet-player, the moment he discerns you from afar, fixes his imploring eyes upon you, while the most touching strains of his instrument are directed to touch your charitable sympathies, and that, too, so successfully, that again your purse opens at this fresh appeal. One day, more than usually disposed to pity this very unfortunate object by the importunities of the friend who first pointed him out to you, and who is most wickedly abusing your generous heart, you resolve to visit this case of genuine distress, as your false friend terms it, and to behold the poor object of your solicitude in the midst of his misery. Well, you go. But, lo! the grief-stricken musician has vanished; and in his place you find a lively, rollicking fellow, enjoying himself over some of the good things of this world, and mirthfully carolling forth the last new alehouse catch. Then disgust succeeds to pity; for you have bestowed your sympathy and charity alike upon an impostor, neither more nor less. Is it not so?”
Madame d’Harville could not restrain a smile at this singular apologue. She, however, soon checked it, as she added:
“However grateful I may feel for this mode of justifying my great imprudence, my lord, I can but confess I dare not avail myself of so favourable a pretext as that of mistaken charity.”
“Yet, after all, yours was an error based upon motives of noble and generous pity for the wounded feelings of one you believed a genuine object for commiseration. Fortunately, there are so many ways left you of atoning for one indiscretion, that your regret need be but small. Shall I not have the pleasure of seeing M. d’Harville this evening?”
“No, my lord. The scene of this morning has so much affected him that he is — ill,” said the marquise, in a low, tremulous tone.
“Ah,” replied Rodolph, sadly, “I understand! Come, courage! you were saying that you required an aim, a motive, a means of directing your thoughts. Permit me to hope that all this will be accomplished by following out the plan I have proposed. Your heart will be then so filled with the delightful recollection of all the happiness you have caused, and all the good you have effected, that, in all probability, you will find no room for resentment against your husband. In place of angry feelings, you will regard him with the same sorrowing pity you look on your dear child. And as for the interesting little creature herself, now you have confided to me the cause of her delicate health, I almost think myself warranted in bidding you yet to entertain hopes of overcoming the fearful complaint which has hitherto affected her tender frame.”
“Oh, my lord!” exclaimed Clémence, clasping her hands with eagerness, “can it be possible? How? In what manner can my child be saved?”
“I have, as physician to myself and household, a man almost unknown, though possessed of a first-rate science. Great part of his life was passed in America; and I remember his speaking to me of some marvellous cures performed by him on slaves attacked by this distressing complaint.”
“And do you really think, my lord—”
“Nay, you must not allow yourself to dwell too confidently upon success; the disappointment would be so very severe. Only, do not let us wholly despair.”
Clémence d’Harville cast a hasty glance of unutterable gratitude over the noble features of Rodolph, the firm, unflinching friend, who reconciled her to herself with so much good sense, intelligence, and delicacy of feeling. Then she asked herself how, for one instant, she could ever have been interested in the fate of such a being as M. Charles Robert, — the very idea was hateful to her.
“What do I not owe you, my lord?” cried she, in a voice of thrilling emotion; “you console me for the past; you open to me a glimpse of hope for my child; and you place before me a plan of future occupation which shall afford me both consolation and the delight of doing my duty. Ah, was I not right when I said that, if you would come here to-night, you would finish the day as you had begun it, — by performing a good action?”
“And pray, madame, do not omit to add, — an action after my own heart, where all is pleasure and unmixed enjoyment in its performance. And now, adieu!” said Rodolph, rising as the clock struck half-past eleven.
“Adieu, my lord, and pray do not forget to send me news ere long of those poor people in the Rue du Temple.”
“I will see them to-morrow, for, unfortunately, I knew not of that little limping rascal having stolen your purse; and I fear that the unhappy creatures are in the most deplorable want. Have the kindness to bear in mind that, in the course of four days, I shall come to explain to you the nature of the part you will be required to undertake. One thing I must prepare you for; and that is, the probability of its being requisite for you to assume a disguise on the occasion.”
“A disguise? Oh, how charming! What sort of one, my lord?”
“I cannot tell you at present. I will leave the choice to you.”
“All that is requisite,” said the prince, on his return home, “to save this excellent woman from the perils of another attachment, is to fill her mind with generous thoughts; and, since an invincible repugnance separates her from her husband, to employ her love for the romantic in such charitable actions as shall require being enshrouded in mystery.”
CHAPTER XII.
MISERY.
THE READER HAS probably not forgotten that the garret in the Rue du Temple was occupied by an unfortunate family, the father of whom was a working lapidary, named Morel. We shall now endeavour to describe the wretched abode of Morel and his children.
It was six o’clock in the morning; a deep silence dwelt around. The streets were still deserted, for the snow fell fast, and the cold, biting wind froze as it blew. A miserable candle, stuck upon a small block of wood, and supported by two slips of the same material, scarcely penetrated with its yellow, flickering light the misty darkness of the garret, — a narrow, low-built place, two-thirds of which was formed by the sloping roof, which communicated by a sharp angle with the wretched flooring, and freely exposed the moss-covered tiles of the outer roof. Walls covered with plaster, blackened by time, and split into countless crevices, displayed the rotten, worm-eaten laths, which formed the frail division from other chambers, while in one corner of this deplorable habitation a door off the hinges opened upon a narrow staircase. The ground, of a nameless colour, but foul, fetid, and slippery, was partly strewed with bits of dirty straw, old rags, and bones, the residue of that unwholesome and vitiated food sold by the dealers in condemned meat, and frequently bought by starving wretches, for the purpose of gnawing the few cartilages that may adhere.
It is no uncommon thing to meet, in densely crowded parts of Paris, with persons who openly sell the flesh of animals born dead, as well as of others who have died of disease, etc.
So wretched a condition either arises from improvidence and vice, or from unavoidable misery, — misery so great, so overwhelming and paralysing, as to enfeeble every energy, and to render the unhappy object of it too hopeless, too despairing, even to attempt to ext
ricate himself from the squalor of his utter destitution, and he crouches in his dirt and desolation like an animal in its den.
During the day, Morel’s garret was lighted by a species of long, narrow skylight formed in the descending roof, framed and glazed, and made to open and shut by means of a pulley and string; but, at the hour which we are describing, a heavy fall of snow encumbered the window, and effectually prevented its affording any light. The candle placed on Morel’s working-table, which stood in the centre of the chamber, diffused a kind of halo of pale, sickly beams, which, gradually diminishing, was at last lost in the dim shadow which overspread the place, in whose murky duskiness might be seen the faint outline of several white-looking masses. On the work-table, which was merely a heavy and roughly cut wooden block of unpolished oak, covered with grease and soot, lay, loosely scattered about, a handful of rubies and diamonds, of more than ordinary size and brilliancy, while, as the mean rays of the small candle were reflected on them, they glittered and sparkled like so many coruscating fires.
Morel was a worker of real stones, and not false ones, as he had given out, and as was universally believed, in the Rue du Temple. Thanks to this innocent deception, the costly jewels entrusted to him were merely supposed to be so many pieces of glass, too valueless to tempt the cupidity of any one. Such riches, confided to the care of one as poor and miserably destitute as Morel, will render any reference to the honesty of his character quite unnecessary.
Seated on a high stool, and wholly overcome by fatigue, cold, and weariness, after a long winter’s night, passed in unceasing labour, the poor lapidary had fallen asleep on his block, with his head upon his half-frozen arms, and his forehead resting against a small grindstone, placed horizontally on the table, and generally put in motion by a little hand-wheel, while a fine steel saw, and various other tools belonging to his trade, were lying beside him. The man himself, of whom nothing but the skull, surrounded by a fringe of gray hairs, was visible, was dressed in a shabby fustian jacket, without any species of linen or garment beneath it, and an old pair of cloth trousers, while his worn-out slippers scarcely concealed the blue, cold feet they partially covered, from resting solely on the damp, shiny floor; and so bitter, so freezing, was the sharp winter wind which freely entered into this scarcely human dwelling, that, spite of the weariness and exhaustion of the overworked artisan, his frame shuddered and shivered with involuntary frequency. The length of the wick of the unsnuffed candle bespoke the length of time even this uneasy slumber must have lasted, and no sound save his troubled and irregular breathing broke the deathlike silence that prevailed; for, alas! the other occupants of this mean abode were not so fortunate as to be able to forget their sufferings in sleep. Yet this narrow, pent-up, unwholesome spot contained no less than seven other persons, — five children, the youngest of whom was four years of age, the eldest twelve, a sick and declining wife, with an aged grandmother, the parent of Morel’s wife, now in her eightieth year, and an idiot!
The cold must have been intense, indeed, when the natural warmth of so many persons, so closely packed together in so small a place, could not in any way affect the freezing atmosphere; it was evident, therefore, to speak scientifically, that but little caloric was given out by the poor, weak, emaciated, shivering creatures, all suffering and almost expiring with cold and hunger, from the puny infant to the idiotic old grandmother.
With the exception of the father of the family, who had temporarily yielded to the aching of his heavy eyelids, no other creature slept, — no other; because cold, starvation, and sickness will not allow so sweet an enjoyment as the closing the eyes in peaceful rest. Little does the world believe how rarely comes that sound, healthful, and refreshing slumber to the poor man’s pillow, which at once invigorates the mind and body, and sends the willing labourer back to his toil refreshed and recruited by the blessing of a beneficent Creator. To taste of nature’s sweet, refreshing, balmy sleep, sickness, sorrow, poverty, and mental disquietude must not share the humble pallet.
In contrasting the deep misery of the poor artisan, with whose woes we are now occupying the reader, with the immense value of the jewelry confided to him, we are struck by one of those comparisons which afflict while they elevate the mind. With the distracting spectacle of his family’s want and wretchedness, embracing a wide field from cold and hunger to drivelling idiocy, constantly before his eyes, this man, in the pursuance of his daily labour, is compelled to touch and handle and gaze upon bright and sparkling gems, the smallest of which would be a mine of wealth to him, and save those dearest to him from sufferings and privations which wring his very heart; would snatch them from the slow and lingering death which is consuming them before his eyes. Yet, amid all these trials and temptations, the artisan remains firmly, truly, and unflinchingly honest, and would no more appropriate one of the glittering stones entrusted to him than he would satisfy his hunger at the expense of his starving babes. Doubtless the man but performed his duty to his employer, — his simple duty; but because it is enjoined to all to be honest and faithful in that which is committed to them, does that render the action itself less noble, magnanimous, or praiseworthy? Is not this unfortunate artisan, so courageously, so bravely upright and honest while entrusted with the property of another, the type and model of an immense class of working people, who, doomed to a life of continual poverty and privation, see, with calm, patient looks, thousands of their brethren rolling in splendour and abounding in riches, yet they toil on, resigned and unenvying, but still industriously striving for bread their hardest efforts cannot always procure? And is there not something consolatory, as well as gratifying to our feelings, to consider that it is neither force nor terror, but good natural sense and a right mind which alone restrain this formidable ocean, this heaving mass, whose bounds once broken, a moral inundation would ensue, in which society itself would be swallowed up? Shall we, then, refuse to cooperate with all the powers of our mind and body with those generous and enlightened spirits, who ask but a little sunshine for so much misfortune, courage, and resignation?
Let us now return to the, alas! too true specimen of distressing want we shall endeavour to describe in all its fearful and startling reality.
The lapidary possessed only a thin mattress and a portion of a blanket appropriated to the old grandmother, who, in her stupid and ferocious selfishness, would not allow any person to share them with her. In the beginning of the winter she had become quite violent, and had even attempted to strangle the youngest child, who had been put to sleep with her. This poor infant was a sickly little creature, of about four years old, now far gone in consumption, and who found it too cold inside the mattress, where she slept with her brothers and sisters. Hereafter we shall explain this mode of sleeping so frequently employed by the very poor, in comparison with whom the very animals are treated luxuriously, for their litter is changed. Such was the picture presented in the humble garret of the poor lapidary, when the eye was enabled to pierce the gloomy penumbra caused by the flickering rays of the candle. By the side of the partition wall, not less damp and cracked than the others, was placed on the floor the mattress on which the idiot grandmother reposed; as she could not bear anything on her head, her white hair was cut very short, and revealed the shape of her head and flat forehead; while her shaggy, gray eyebrows shaded the deep orbits, from which glared a wild, savage, yet crafty look; her pale, hollow, wrinkled cheeks hung upon the bones of the face and the sharp angles of her jaws. Lying upon her side, and almost doubled up, her chin nearly touching her knees, she lay, shivering with cold, beneath the gray rug, too small to cover her all over, and which, as she drew it over her shoulders, exposed her thin, emaciated legs, as well as the wretched old petticoat in which she was clad. An odour most fetid and repulsive issued from this bed.
At a little distance from the mattress of the grandmother, and still extending along the side of the wall, was placed the paillasse which served as a sleeping-place for the five children, who were accommodated after th
e following manner:
An opening was made at each side of the cloth which covered the straw, and the children were inserted into this bed, or, rather, foul and noisome dunghill, the outer case serving both for sheet and counterpane. Two little girls, one of whom was extremely ill, shivered on one side, and three young boys on the other, all going to bed without undressing, if, indeed, the miserable rags they wore could be termed clothes. Masses of thick, dry, light hair, tangled, ragged, and uncombed, left uncut because their poor mother fancied it helped to keep them warm, half covered their pale, thin, pinched features. One of the boys drew, with his cold, benumbed fingers, the covering over their straw bed up to his chin, in order to defend himself from the cold; while another, fearful of exposing his hands to the influence of the frost, tried to grasp the bed-covering with his teeth, which rattled and shook in his head; while a third strove to huddle up to his brothers in the hopes of gaining a little warmth. The youngest of the two girls, fatally attacked by consumption, leaned her poor little face, which already bore the hue of death, languidly against the chilly bosom of her sister, a girl just one year older, who vainly sought, by pressing her in her arms, to impart comfort and ease to the little sufferer, over whom she watched with the anxious solicitude of a parent.
On another paillasse, also placed on the ground, at the foot of that of the children, the wife of the artisan was extended, groaning in helpless exhaustion from the effects of a slow fever and an internal complaint, which had not permitted her to quit her bed for several months. Madeleine Morel was in her thirty-sixth year; a blue cotton handkerchief, tied round her low forehead, made the bilious pallor of her countenance and sharp, emaciated features still more conspicuous. A dark halo encircled her hollow, sunken eyes, while her lips were split and bleeding from the effects of the fever which consumed her; her dejected, grief-worn physiognomy, and small, insignificant features, indicated one of those gentle but weak natures, without resource or energy, which unable to struggle with misfortunes, yield at once, and know no remedy but vain and ceaseless lamentations and regrets. Weak, spiritless, and of limited capacity, she had remained honest because her husband was so; had she been left to herself, it is probable that ignorance and misfortune might have depraved her mind and driven her to any lengths. She loved her husband and her children, but she had neither the courage nor resolution to restrain giving vent to loud and open complaints respecting their mutual misery; and frequently was the lapidary, whose unflinching labour alone maintained the family, obliged to quit his work to console and pacify the poor valetudinarian. Over and above an old ragged sheet of coarse brown cloth, which partially covered his wife, Morel had, in order to impart a little warmth, laid a few old clothes, so worn out, and patched and pieced, that the pawnbroker had refused to have anything to do with them.