by Eugène Sue
“You or your husband, it is no matter which. Go forward.”
And, preceded by Madame Pipelet, he ascended the staircase, but soon stopped when he saw Rodolph and Rigolette following him.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” he inquired.
“They are two lodgers in the fourth story,” said Madame Pipelet.
“I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know that you belonged to the house,” said he to Rodolph.
The latter, auguring well from the polite behaviour of the magistrate, said to him:
“You are going to see a family in a state of deep misery, sir. I do not know what fresh stroke of ill fortune threatens this unhappy artisan, but he has been cruelly tried last night, — one of his daughters, worn down by illness, is dead before his eyes, — dead from cold and misery.”
“Is it possible?”
“It is, indeed, the fact, mon commissaire,” said Madame Pipelet. “But for this gentleman who speaks to you, and who is a king of lodgers, for he has saved poor Morel from prison by his generosity, the whole family of the lapidary must have died of hunger.”
The commissary looked at Rodolph with equal surprise and interest.
“Nothing is more easily explained, sir,” said Rodolph. “A person who is very charitable, learning that Morel, whose honour and honesty I will guarantee to you, was in a most deplorable and unmerited state of distress, authorised me to pay a bill of exchange for which the bailiffs were about to drag off to prison this poor workman, the sole support of his numerous family.”
The magistrate, in his turn, struck by the noble physiognomy of Rodolph, as well as the dignity of his manners, replied:
“I have no doubt of Morel’s probity. I only regret I have to fulfil a painful duty in your presence, sir, who have so deeply interested yourself in this family.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“From the services you have rendered to the Morels, and your language, I see, sir, that you are a worthy person. Having, besides, no reason for concealing the object of the warrant which I have to execute, I will confess to you that I am about to apprehend Louise Morel, the lapidary’s daughter.”
The recollection of the rouleau of gold, offered to the bailiffs by the young girl, occurred to Rodolph.
“Of what is she then accused?”
“She lies under a charge of child-murder.”
“She! she! Oh, her poor father!”
“From what you have told me, sir, I imagine that, under the miserable circumstances in which this artisan is, this fresh blow will be terrible for him. Unfortunately, I must carry out the full instructions with which I am charged.”
“But it is at present only an accusation?” asked Rodolph. “Proofs, no doubt, are still wanting?”
“I cannot tell you more on that point. Justice has been informed of this crime, or rather the presumptive crime, by the statement of an individual most respectable in every particular, Louise Morel’s master.”
“Jacques Ferrand, the notary?” said Rodolph, with indignation.
“Yes, sir—”
“M. Jacques Ferrand is a wretch, sir!”
“I am pained to see that you do not know the person of whom you speak, sir. M. Jacques Ferrand is one of the most honourable men in the world; his rectitude is universally recognised.”
“I repeat to you, sir, that this notary is a wretch. It was he who sought to send Morel to prison because his daughter repulsed his libidinous proposals. If Louise is only accused on the denunciation of such a man, you must own, sir, that the charge deserves but very little credit.”
“It is not my affair, sir, and I am very glad of it, to discuss the depositions of M. Ferrand,” said the magistrate, coldly. “Justice is informed in this matter, and it is for a court of law to decide. As for me, I have a warrant to apprehend Louise Morel, and that warrant I must put into execution.”
“You are quite right, sir, and I regret that an impulse of feeling, however just, should have made me forget for a moment that this was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. One word only: the corpse of the child which Morel has lost is still in the attic, and I have offered my apartments to the family to spare them the sad spectacle of the dead body. You will, therefore, find the lapidary, and possibly his daughter, in my rooms. I entreat you, sir, in the name of humanity, do not apprehend Louise abruptly in the midst of the unhappy family only a short time since snatched from their state of utter wretchedness. Morel has had so many shocks during this night that it is really to be feared his reason may sink under it; already his wife is dangerously ill, and such a blow would kill him.”
“Sir, I have always executed my orders with every possible consideration, and I shall act similarly now.”
“Will you allow me, sir, to ask you one favour? It is this: the young female who is following us occupies an apartment close to mine, which, I have no doubt, she would place at your disposal. You could, in the first instance, send for Louise, and, if necessary, for Morel afterwards, that his daughter may take leave of him. You will thus save a poor sick and infirm mother from a very distressing scene.”
“Most willingly, sir, if it can be so arranged.”
The conversation we have just described was carried on in an undertone, whilst Rigolette and Madame Pipelet kept away discreetly a few steps’ distance from the commissary and Rodolph. The latter then went to the grisette, whom the presence of the commissary had greatly affrighted, and said to her:
“My good little neighbour, I want another service from you, — I want you to leave your room at my disposal for the next hour.”
“As long as you please, M. Rodolph. You have the key. But, oh, say what is the matter?”
“I will tell you all by and by. But I want something more; you must return to the Temple, and tell them not to bring our purchases here for the next hour.”
“To be sure I will, M. Rodolph; but has any fresh misfortune befallen the Morels?”
“Alas! yes, something very sad indeed, which you will learn but too soon.”
“Well, then, neighbour, I will run to the Temple. Alas, alas! I was thinking that, thanks to your kindness, these poor people had been quite relieved from their trouble!” said the grisette, who then descended the staircase very quickly.
Rodolph had been very desirous of sparing Rigolette the distressing scene of Louise Morel’s arrest.
“Mon commissaire,” said Madame Pipelet, “since my king of lodgers will direct you, I may return to my Alfred. I am uneasy about him, for when I left him he had hardly recovered from his indisposition which Cabrion had caused.”
“Go, go,” said the magistrate, who was thus left alone with Rodolph.
They both ascended to the landing-place on the fourth story, at the door of the chamber in which the lapidary and his family had been temporarily established.
Suddenly the door opened. Louise, pale and in tears, came out quickly.
“Adieu, adieu, father!” she exclaimed. “I will come back again, but I must go now.”
“Louise, my child, listen to me a moment,” said Morel, following his daughter, and endeavouring to detain her.
At the sight of Rodolph and the magistrate, Louise and the lapidary remained motionless.
“Ah, sir, you, our kind benefactor!” said the artisan, recognising Rodolph, “assist me in preventing Louise from leaving us. I do not know what is the matter with her, but she quite frightens me, she is so determined to go. Now there is no occasion for her to return to her master, is there, sir? Did you not say to me, ‘Louise shall not again leave you, and that will recompense you for much that you have suffered?’ Ah! at that kind promise, I confess that for a moment I had forgot the death of my poor little Adèle; but I must not again be separated from thee, Louise, oh, never, never!”
Rodolph was wounded to the heart, and was unable to utter a word in reply.
The commissary said sternly to Louise:
“Is your name Louise Morel?”
�
��Yes, sir,” replied the young girl, quite overcome.
“You are Jérome Morel, her father?” added the magistrate, addressing the lapidary.
Rodolph had opened the door of Rigolette’s apartment.
“Yes, sir; but—”
“Go in there with your daughter.”
And the magistrate pointed to Rigolette’s chamber, into which Rodolph had already entered.
Reassured by his preserver, the lapidary and Louise, astonished and uneasy, did as the commissary desired them.
The commissary shut the door, and said with much feeling to Morel:
“I know that you are honest and unfortunate, and it is, therefore, with regret that I tell you that I am here in the name of the law to apprehend your daughter.”
“All is discovered, — I am lost!” cried Louise, in agony, and throwing herself into her father’s arms.
“What do you say? What do you say?” inquired Morel, stupefied. “You are mad! What do you mean by lost? Apprehend you! Why apprehend you? Who has come to apprehend you?”
“I, and in the name of the law;” and the commissary showed his scarf.
“Oh, wretched, wretched girl!” exclaimed Louise, falling on her knees.
“What! in the name of the law?” said the artisan, whose reason, severely shaken by this fresh blow, began to totter. “Why apprehend my daughter in the name of the law? I will answer for Louise, I will, — this my child, my good child, ain’t you, Louise? What! apprehend you, when our good angel has restored you to us to console us for the death of our poor, dear little Adèle? Come, come, this can’t be. And then, to speak respectfully, M. le Commissaire, they apprehend none but the bad, you know; and my Louise is not bad. So you see, my dear, the good gentleman is mistaken. My name is Morel, but there are other Morels; you are Louise, but there are other Louises; so you see, M. le Commissaire, there is a mistake, certainly some mistake!”
“Unhappily there is no mistake. Louise Morel, take leave of your father!”
“What! are you going to take my daughter away?” exclaimed the workman, furious with grief, and advancing towards the magistrate with a menacing air.
Rodolph seized the lapidary by the arm, and said to him:
“Be calm, and hope for the best; your daughter will be restored to you; her innocence must be proved; she cannot be guilty.”
“Guilty of what? She is not guilty of anything. I will put my hand in the fire if—” Then, remembering the gold which Louise had brought to pay the bill with, Morel cried, “But the money — that money you had this morning, Louise!” And he gave his daughter a terrible look.
Louise understood it.
“I rob!” she exclaimed; and her cheeks suffused with generous indignation, her tone and gesture, reassured her father.
“I knew it well enough!” he exclaimed. “You see, M. le Commissaire, she denies it; and I swear to you, that she never told me a lie in her life; and everybody that knows her will say the same thing as I do. She lie! Oh, no, she is too proud to do that! And, then, the bill has been paid by our benefactor. The gold she does not wish to keep, but will return it to the person who lent it to her, desiring him not to tell any one; won’t you, Louise?”
“Your daughter is not accused of theft,” said the magistrate.
“Well, then, what is the charge against her? I, her father, swear to you that she is innocent of whatever crime they may accuse her of, and I never told a lie in my life either.”
“Why should you know what she is charged with?” said Rodolph, moved by his distress. “Louise’s innocence will be proved; the person who takes so great an interest in you will protect your daughter. Come, come! Courage, courage! This time Providence will not forsake you. Embrace your daughter, and you will soon see her again.”
“M. le Commissaire,” cried Morel, not attending to Rodolph, “you are going to deprive a father of his daughter without even naming the crime of which she is accused! Let me know all! Louise, why don’t you speak?”
“Your daughter is accused of child-murder,” said the magistrate.
“I — I — I — child-mur — I don’t — you—”
And Morel, aghast, stammered incoherently.
“Your daughter is accused of having killed her child,” said the commissary, deeply touched at this scene; “but it is not yet proved that she has committed this crime.”
“Oh, no, I have not, sir! I have not!” exclaimed Louise, energetically, and rising; “I swear to you that it was dead. It never breathed, — it was cold. I lost my senses, — this is my crime. But kill my child! Oh, never, never!”
“Your child, abandoned girl!” cried Morel, raising his hands towards Louise, as if he would annihilate her by this gesture and imprecation.
“Pardon, father, pardon!” she exclaimed.
After a moment’s fearful silence, Morel resumed, with a calm that was even more frightful:
“M. le Commissaire, take away that creature; she is not my child!”
The lapidary turned to leave the room; but Louise threw herself at his knees, around which she clung with both arms; and, with her head thrown back, distracted and supplicating, she exclaimed:
“Father, hear me! Only hear me!”
“M. le Commissaire, away with her, I beseech you! I leave her to you,” said the lapidary, struggling to free himself from Louise’s embrace.
“Listen to her,” said Rodolph, holding him; “do not be so pitiless.”
“To her! To her!” repeated Morel, lifting his two hands to his forehead, “to a dishonoured wretch! A wanton! Oh, a wanton!”
“But, if she were dishonoured through her efforts to save you?” said Rodolph to him in a low voice.
These words made a sudden and painful impression on Morel, and he cast his eyes on his weeping child still on her knees before him; then, with a searching look, impossible to describe, he cried in a hollow voice, clenching his teeth with rage:
“The notary?”
An answer came to Louise’s lips. She was about to speak, but paused, — no doubt a reflection, — and, bending down her head, remained silent.
“No, no; he sought to imprison me this morning!” continued Morel, with a violent burst. “Can it be he? Ah, so much the better, so much the better! She has not even an excuse for her crime; she never thought of me in her dishonour, and I may curse her without remorse.”
“No, no; do not curse me, my father! I will tell you all, — to you alone, and you will see — you will see whether or not I deserve your forgiveness.”
“For pity’s sake, hear her!” said Rodolph to him.
“What will she tell me, — her infamy? That will soon be public, and I can wait till then.”
“Sir,” said Louise, addressing the magistrate, “for pity’s sake, leave me alone with my father, that I may say a few words to him before I leave him, perhaps for ever; and before you, also, our benefactor, I will speak; but only before you and my father.”
“Be it so,” said the magistrate.
“Will you be pitiless, and refuse this last consolation to your child?” asked Rodolph of Morel. “If you think you owe me any gratitude for the kindness which I have been enabled to show you, consent to your daughter’s entreaties.”
After a moment’s sad and angry silence, Morel replied:
“I will.”
“But where shall we go!” inquired Rodolph; “your family are in the other room.”
“Where shall we go,” exclaimed the lapidary, with a bitter irony, “where shall we go? Up above, — up above, into the garret, by the side of the body of my dead daughter; that spot will well suit a confession, will it not? Come along, come, and we will see if Louise will dare to tell a lie in the presence of her sister’s corpse. Come! Come along!”
And Morel went out hastily with a wild air, and turning his face from Louise.
“Sir,” said the commissary to Rodolph, in an undertone, “I beg you for this poor man’s sake not to protract this conversation. You were right when you
said his reason was touched; just now his look was that of a madman.”
“Alas, sir, I am equally fearful with yourself of some fresh and terrible disaster! I will abridge as much as I can this most painful farewell.”
And Rodolph rejoined the lapidary and his daughter.
However strange and painful Morel’s determination might appear, it was really the only thing that, under the circumstances, could be done. The magistrate consented to await the issue of this conversation in Rigolette’s chamber; the Morel family were occupying Rodolph’s apartment, and there was only the garret at liberty; and it was into this horrid retreat that Louise, her father, and Rodolph betook themselves. Sad and affecting sight!
In the middle of the attic which we have already described, there lay, stretched on the idiot’s mattress, the body of the little girl who had died in the morning, now covered by a ragged cloth. The unusual and clear light, reflected through the narrow skylight, threw the figures of the three actors in this scene into bold relief. Rodolph, standing up, was leaning with his back against the wall, deeply moved. Morel, seated at the edge of his working-bench, with his head bent, his hands hanging listless by his sides, whilst his gaze, fixed and fierce, rested on, and did not quit, the mattress on which the remains of his poor little Adèle were deposited. At this spectacle, the anger and indignation of the lapidary subsided, and were changed to inexpressible bitterness; his energy left him, and he was utterly prostrated beneath this fresh blow. Louise, who was ghastly pale, felt her strength forsake her. The revelation she was about to make terrified her. Still she ventured, tremblingly, to take her father’s hand, — that miserable and shrivelled hand, withered and wasted by excess of toil. The lapidary did not withdraw it, and then his daughter, sobbing as if her heart would burst, covered it with kisses, and felt it slightly pressed against her lips. Morel’s wrath had ended, and then his tears, long repressed, flowed freely and bitterly.
“Oh, father, if you only knew!” exclaimed Louise; “if you only knew how much I am to be pitied!”
“Oh, Louise, this, this will be the heaviest bitter in my cup for the rest of my life, — all my life long,” replied the lapidary, weeping terribly. “You, you in prison, — in the same bench with criminals; you so proud when you had a right to be proud! No,” he resumed in a fresh burst of grief and despair, “no; I would rather have seen you in your shroud beside your poor little sister!”